Croatoan
by neverhomeless
Summary: The Croatoan-virus goes pandemic. All Sam, Dean and Cas can do is keep on keepin' on. Lucifer visits Sam in his dreams every night. Castiel struggles with his new humanity. Dean fights to keep their group together, to keep Michael out of his body, and to prevent the future that Zachariah showed him from becoming their reality. Eventual Destiel. Rating will go up.
1. Prologue

AN: I need something to occupy my time, so I'm starting this project. I know the prologue is written in Bobby's POV, but the plan for the rest of the story is to change each chapter's POV between Sam, Dean and Cas. I also plan to include smut, but I will warn ya'll and change the rating when that happens. For now: Enjoy.

Oh, and a disclaimer: I don't own anything and all that jazz. I just love it. A lot.

_Prologue_

_Bobby_

Bobby is tired. No, he's exhausted. He has lost half an eyebrow to the fire in the storage building and he is soon going to be out of alcohol. His legs that haven't walked for so long are weak and sore from the new exorcise. He just wants to sleep. But he knows that if he goes to bed without completing his usual routines, sleep won't come. So he keeps on working, searching through news papers, police reports, occasionally looking up something in one of his big leather-bound books which pages are dusty and smells good.

He throws most of the papers away. Some files he saves in his top desk drawer. Those are files that maybe will turn out to be cases or maybe will turn out to be nothing. One of the files is about some missing hunters in Montana and he searches the drawer, pretty sure that there's a similar case from the same area. He's right. He writes a note to himself about calling a guy he knows who normally travels around in that area; ask him to check it out. Bobby is rarely out in the field anymore. These days it's only Sam and Dean who can convince him to help them with a case. And once in a while it's Rufus. But he's more of a go-to guy now. He watches the phones, checks the papers for potential cases, helps a hunter with facts and lore when they call and ask for his help. He's aging, and he knows it. But he's not going to leave the game. That's impossible. No one gets out. So he's the one they call. And he answers, with a bottle of whisky in his hands and a book open at his desk. Tells them _there's a case for ya in Utah _or _ya need to chop its hands off during a full moon _or _how can you mess up a Devil's Trap, idjit? _And that's fine. That's as close as he can get to peace and quiet. He'll take what he can get, and cross his fingers that he gets to keep it, that Sam and Dean somehow manages to stop the apocalypse so he can grow old.

He's almost ready to go to bed, just needs to check the weather reports for demon omens, when his eye catches something. It's a small town in Kansas – Hope, it's called. It looks like there's more than one demon. Actually there's bound to be quite a lot of demons in Hope at the moment, judging by the omens. He calls Garth, who whines about being woken up in the middle of the night. Garth is useless in most areas, but he's better at computers than Bobby is. Actually he's pretty great with them. Bobby convinces him to hack into a few things, and after a while Garth can tell him that there have been no phone calls made in the town for one and a half days. Neither have there been any internet activity or cash withdrawals. Bobby thanks Garth and hangs up.

He thought they had done it, him and Sam. Blowing up the pharmaceutical company's stock of their so-called vaccines. He thought that that was it. Apparently it wasn't. He stares at the phone in his hands. He doesn't want to call Sam and Dean. They have enough on their shoulders right now, with Lucifer and Michael constantly nagging at them to become vessels. But he has to. The apocalypse can wait. An outbreak of Croatoan-virus can't. He dials Dean's number.


	2. Chapter 1 - Dean

_Chapter 1_

_Dean_

_Nice job_, Dean says to himself. _Excellent show of skill there, Dean. You are getting quite a knack at these things. Letting your dad die for you, breaking the first seal, starting the apocalypse… and now you have let the devil infect a whole town with Croatoan. Nice job. _

His grip on the wheel is so tight that his knuckles have gone white, and he drives way too fast. The muscles in his jaw are getting sore from clenching it together too hard for too long and Metallica is blasting loudly out of the Impala's speakers.

"Dean," says Sam. For once, he's not riding shotgun. He's sitting in the backseat with Cas.

Dean ignores him.

"Dean, it's not your fault," his brother continues. "It's not any of our faults. We couldn't have known – " he is cut off when Cas violently vomits into the plastic bag that Sam is holding up for him. The former angel is having a hard time adapting to his human body. He has very little understanding of how to control his own muscles and can't even walk a straight line. They hadn't even been driving for ten minutes before he announced that he was feeling unwell, and another ten minutes barely passed before he got sick for the first time. Dean reckons that it will be a long time before Cas can ride with them in the Impala without getting carsick. The sight of the world sweeping by them without his legs moving is too strange for his stomach to handle.

"It's not your fault." Sam repeats.

"Shut the fuck up, Sam." Dean has to restrain himself from yelling.

"Can we maybe… stop for few minutes?" Cas asks with a shaky voice. Dean catches a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. His skin is pale and shining with sweat. He looks like he's trembling a little. He doesn't understand what's happening to his body. The first time he threw up Sam had to tell him to spit it out when Cas nearly choked, trying to keep the vomit down. Dean feels a little ashamed that he hasn't spoken a word to his friend for the entire trip. So even though they're in a hurry, he turns the wheel and begins to pull over to the side of the road.

Cas takes a few unsteady steps away from the car, before he collapses on the ground. Dean bites back his annoyance at the helpless man, and walk over to help him. While Sam dumps the smelling plastic bag in some bushes, Dean walks over and offers him a hand. Cas knocks it away.

"Argh, come on Cas. We don't have time for this." He reaches out his hand again. Cas lifts his head and glares at him.

"I can do it myself," he mumbles. He slowly climbs to his feet while Dean just stands there, unsure what to do. The sun is down,  
"I, uh… I'll get you some water," he says, and goes to the car.

"Dean, _listen to me_." Sam is getting angry.

"I gotta give Cas some water." Dean says, keeping his voice as flat as possible, and opens the trunk. Sam grabs one of the plastic bottles and throws it to Cas who flails and drops it on the ground. Sam turns and looks back at Dean, his eyebrows pushed together with either worry or anger. Dean can't tell.

"We have no idea about how long Lucifer has been in the cage," Sam begins. "Probably for thousands of years. Maybe even for millennia. And all that time he has been planning. He has been thinking through all the possible ways things could play out and he has secured himself against them all."

"Don't give me any of that crap, Sam." Dean says. "I know Lucifer is a slimy bastard. I should have figured out he had a backup plan."

"There's no way you could have prevented this. Stop blaming yourself. The only thing we can do now is try to stop it. So suck it up and don't let your self-loathing issues screw this up." Sam bites back. His tone is unusually hard. If this was normal, Sam would try to get Dean to talk about this. But not today. There isn't time.

And Sam is scared, Dean realizes.

So Dean sucks it up. He made a mistake. He should have known that Lucifer wouldn't put all his eggs in one basket. When Bobby called him with the news his first thought was _"Of course". _

But there's nothing he can do about it now. Sam walks around the car and sits down in the driver's seat. Dean doesn't protest. He looks a Cas, who's standing still, staring emptily at the water bottle in his hands.

Dean wants to say he's sorry, sorry that he's rough and barks at his friend, sorry that he's not helping Cas learn how to manage his body, sorry that he's never properly thanked Cas for all the things he's done for him.

Instead he mutters "Gimme that," and rips the water bottle out of Cas' grip. He unscrews the lid and thrusts the bottle back into Cas' arms without looking him in the eye. Water spills on Cas' coat.

"Hurry up," Dean says.

"Sorry," Cas says.

They drive on in silence. When they reach the last motel before Hope, Dean stops the car.

"Cas, uh... you have to wait for us here," says Sam.

"Okay," says Cas, the good soldier. Obeying their orders. Sam unbuckles his belt after a few of Cas' feeble attempts to do so fail to succeed. Dean doesn't know if Cas is just so unused to his freedom that he forgot that he's entitled to ask questions or if the former angel is afraid to hear whatever reasons Dean might have leaving him behind. Whatever reason it is, something changes Cas' mind when he is halfway out of the car.

"Why?" he asks.

It feels like a knife in Dean's gut.

"We can't bring you into the fighting, Cas," he says. He's looking out of the front window of the car, staring at the abandoned parking lot. He knows that he should turn his head. He doesn't want to. Instead he continues: "You can't defend yourself. It's too dangerous. Sam and I, it won't do if we have to take care of you out there. You'll only slow us down."

He wants to tell Cas that it's for his own good, that he doesn't know what he would do, if he let him get hurt. Instead the words that come out are rough and hurtful. He wants to rip his own tongue out. Why is he this way?

"Oh," Cas says, "I see. You're right, Dean."

Sam exits the car along with Cas, follows him into the reception to get them a room. Dean waits in the car. It feels like he has swallowed a stone. His stomach is cold and knotted together. He can see Sam and Cas through the glass doors of the motel. They are standing at the counter. Cas has his back turned towards him.

When Sam returns, he is alone. Dean starts the car.


	3. Chapter 2 - Castiel

_Chapter 2_

_Castiel_

Castiel hates being human. It's hard. It's difficult. The physical challenges alone are driving him mad. Dean and Sam learned how to manage their muscles when they were still very small, hardly conscious. Castiel has a grown body and no idea how to control it. He's making progress every day, but it's very little. He can control the bigger limbs – bending knees and elbows were the first things he got a hang of. He can walk, although the motion doesn't come to him naturally. Everything was easier when he could just _will_ his vessel to move with the use of his grace. Now he _is _his vessel and has to learn the language of brain cells, electric impulses and nerves.

It's frustrating. The concept of balance confuses him. Whenever he's standing up, he's afraid he'll forget to keep the posture for a moment and just topple over. His fingers are impossible. All those tiny little joints that have to be perfectly coordinated so he can unscrew a lid or turn a key are driving him mad. But as aggravating as his body might be, it is nowhere near as bad as his emotions.

It's not that he didn't have emotions as an angel. But now everything is… amplified. Before, he had only the big, main emotions to deal with. Anger. Love. Now everything is all mashed together and hard to understand. When he fell over, for example, earlier today, and Dean offered him a hand, he felt a mixture of multiple emotions at the same time. He was ashamed about both his condition and the fact that he had fallen over like child that was still learning to walk. When Dean offered him a hand the embarrassment had grown and his stomach had turned into a knot. He got angry, shy, a little thankful and hurt and offended at the same time. Human emotions make no sense. He feels bad that he knocked Dean's hand away, but he also feels like he was completely entitled to do so. Castiel wishes he had better control over himself.

He recognizes the sensations in his body as tiredness, but he has no desire to sleep. He doesn't like it. His chest feels weird, and when he opens his mouth, he yawns for the first time in his existence. The bones in his jaw aches and clicks and he finds the whole experience rather confusing.

Castiel realizes that he will need something to distract him from his tiredness if he really wishes to postpone sleep and its horrible concept of dreaming for as long as possible. He has only slept once or twice since he lost the last specks of grace, and that was quick, faint dozing in the backseat of the Impala. Still he got to experience the grim world of nightmares and he has no desire to ever sleep again. Images of screaming, bloodied bodies belonging to both humans and angels haunt him. He rises and searches the motel room for anything remotely entertaining. Thoughts about Sam and Dean fighting off wave upon wave of growling, snarling Croatoan-infected humans keep popping into his head. Worry is gnawing its way through his stomach. He opens the only closet in the room, but it's empty. He goes into the bathroom and practices turning the water on and off until his wrists ache. He thinks of Dean and pictures the man with wild inflated eyes coming at him, biting and scratching. He turns the cold water on and lets it run over his hands until it's biting into his skin. He stares at them and wriggles his fingers a bit.

_This is what cold feels like,_ he says to himself. He notices that it's even harder to move his fingers when they are subjected to low temperatures.  
_This is what warmth feels like, _he thinks after soaking his hands in burning hot water. It's peculiar the way that hot and cold water look alike. Only the faint steam that rises from the hot water reveals its high temperature.

He wonders what it will feel like to hold a gun. Or to hit someone. He stares at his right hand and wills it to ball itself into a fist. He feels his nails dig into the skin.

_Baby steps._

Those are the words he tells himself, over and over. He just needs to train himself, to practice. In a few weeks or maybe a month he will be able to control his legs well enough to run. When they have the time, when they are not getting attacked every other day, perhaps Dean will show him how to fight. But it won't happen if can't use his hands. So Castiel moves around in the room and touches everything. He can turn a door handle, but he can't unbutton something. There are no books, but he finds a booklet where bright letters encourages him to visit some sort of amusement park. He doesn't care for the contents of the booklet, but he tries to turn over a page anyway. He fiddles with the paper for a long time before he succeeds. The last thing he tries to operate is the remote control. It reminds him a little bit of Dean. He can almost picture the older Winchester-brother entering through the door, dumping his duffel on the floor and throwing himself on the bed. Then he would say something ridiculous to his brother while smiling that idiotic smile of his before he would pick up the remote and turn on the television. The image sends a spike of sadness through Castiel. Maybe that's the reason he saved the remote control for last.

He sits on the bed and stares at the thing suspiciously. He realizes that he has no idea how it works. He uses one hand to hold the remote and the other to poke at a button. Nothing happens. He presses another, and then another until the screen suddenly shows a picture. It's a woman behind a desk listing things that has happened during the day. _News_, he reminds himself. The image switches to a fire and bloodied people lying on the streets. The woman's voice is still there, although Castiel can't see her anywhere on the screen. She says something about a bomb and The Middle East and Castiel tries to "change the channel" as he knows it's called, since the images on the screen feeds his scary fantasies about Sam and Dean being slaughtered by "croats" far too well.

He presses a button and the image changes to a pornographic movie. The remote falls out of Castiel hands and onto the floor while he stares at the screen in horror. It's not a man and a woman, the pornography that Castiel knows Dean prefers. Instead there are two men on the screen. One of them is on his knees and is performing fellatio on the other man. He is moaning while sucking on the erect penis and he has one hand on his own member.

The man who's on the receiving end lets his fingers slide through the kneeling man's hair. He pulls and tugs at it, forcing the other man to pick up the speed of his movements and to let the penis slide further down his throat. Then there's a sound of pleasure and Castiel doesn't know if it's a moan or a whine or a mewl, he just knows that it makes the inside of his skin tingle, and then he decides that he actually doesn't care what the proper noun is for the sound because then the man slowly tilts his head back and Castiel sees that the skin on his throat is covered in sweat. And then the man orgasms. With eyes clenched shut and fingers curling tighter than ever in his lover's hair he is hit by his climax and he lets out the sound again, only louder and more intense. The kneeling man swallows most of the come that is released into his mouth, but a few drops cling to his lower lip and Castiel feels strangely hot and sweaty.

The screen goes black save for a white box with the message: _"Your free trial period to the channel _Studs_ has expired". _It snaps Castiel out of his trance and he reaches for the remote at the floor. His fingers are shaking violently and he hits the buttons with more force than necessary. He feels odd, a bit itchy, and then again, not itchy at all. His mouth is dry and his heart pounding. Has he gotten ill again? The remote refuses to cooperate, and he drops it once again. When he reaches for it, he realizes that he is experiencing a strange sensation in his crotch. He lets a hand slide over the fabric of his jeans between his legs and gasp, both in surprise when he finds that he is aroused, and pleasure when he discovers that his private parts are rather enjoying the near-physical contact of having his hand slip over it. He jerks his hand away from the area as has he been burned and his wide-eyed stare shifts between his genital area and the hated limb at the end of his arm, now more despised than ever.

After simply pulling the electric cord out of its socket in the wall and thus turning off the television, Castiel crawls into bed, having shed his coat and tie. Shoes, shirts and pants are kept on, as he needs help unbuttoning and untying them. He lies awake in the dark for a long time, listening to his own breath, trying hard to concentrate on the sound of it. He curls himself into a ball and feels his erection throbbing hard against his stomach. He doesn't know when he falls asleep, but when he does his dreams are sweaty and heated and full of lips and strong hands and a rough voice muttering scandalous things into his ears. Even in the dream it makes him blush.


	4. Chapter 3 - Sam

_Chapter 3_

_Sam_

Sometimes Sam envies his big brother for his ability to repress things. Dean can chuck down his issues with a swig of Jack D and carry on hunting for as long as the world needs it. Guilt seems to be the only thing that he has trouble handling. Guilt for not being good enough, for letting people down. His grief, aggravation, all his fears, all his torment, it goes straight down. It seems as though Dean has an unlimited storage unit where all unwanted emotions go. Sam pictures it as a fire that burns inside his brother. Every time Dean needs to dispose of something he throws it into the flames where it burns and burns, fuelling that horrendous anger that he carries with him. The whole thing would implode, of course, if they had normal lives. Dean would end up a mumbling mess in a padded cell. But in those critical situations that their lives seem to solely exist of, it's what keeps his brother going. It's what keeps his adrenalin kicking and his fists in the air.

The problem is that Sam doesn't have that fire inside him. He thinks about this as he drives towards Hope. And he curses under his breath, for it feels like fate is tormenting them. Hope is the thing that he left behind on the road a long time ago. There is only a small speck, a tiny little glimmer inside him that maybe – _maybe _there is a way out of this where not all of humanity is wiped out. And that hope is slowly dying.

It's a sunny day and sweat coats his skin in a thin, shiny layer. The places where his body touches the seat beneath him are downright dripping and the lower back of his shirt is soaked. The car is filled with that sickening smell that hot cars get in the summer, the stench of sweat and hot leather and plastic. In their hurry they've had to break Dean's no food in the Impala-rule, and a piece of wrapping paper is curled into a ball around the remaining crumbs of Dean's hamburger. The ball is lying between the knees of said brother, who is currently sleeping with his head tilted against the window. Two flies are eagerly examining the paper, buzzing excitedly about the oily stains of fat. Sam feels his stomach twisting. He has turned the music off and the only sounds to be heard are the low rumbling of the car, the buzzing of the flies and his brother's superficial, uneven breathing. Not even in his sleep is Dean relaxed.

…

Sam is sitting in his seat with his hand on the door handle; he tells his muscles that he will get out of the car in just a matter of seconds. He feels that wild beating of his heart that always occurs right before their work begins. For just a second he lets the nerves course through his body, he listens to the loud drumming of his heart in his chest and his blood pulsing through arteries everywhere in his body and his vision is slightly blurry. Then he opens the door and his feet touch the ground and he's steady. That's the way it always is.

A faint gush of wind blows a few strands of hair into Sam's face. The wind barely cools down the patches of sweat on his shirt. They have stepped out of the Impala and into the vibrating dry air of the silent town. They are different men when they are in these sorts of situations. They are alert and they are registering everything that passes their eyes as they make a slow turn around themselves. There, a container: Hiding place. That fence: Bad to get caught against in a fight. That house with the broken window: Check for movement behind the shattered glass. The ground beneath their feet is asphalt, but a lot of the road is covered in sand. Sam's mind processes this and he makes a mental note. He has to be careful not to slip.

"Do you think their all hauled up somewhere?" Dean asks. He doesn't look at Sam while he talks, but keeps his eyes on their surroundings. In his hands he is clutching his shotgun and he has a handgun shoved down the back of his pants.  
"It's either that, or their staring at us right now… waiting for the opportune moment." Sam answers, and grips his own gun a little tighter.  
"Yeah, with our luck it's probably the latter."  
There are a few shops on the side of the street, but most of the buildings look like they could be the homes of the townspeople. All of them could make the perfect hiding place for the now Croatoan-infected residents. A few buildings down the street there's a lone pigeon that appears to be searching the ground next to a dumpster for something edible. The dumpster is buzzing with flies.  
"I don't understand," Dean says, "if they wanted to ambush us, why haven't they come out yet?"  
That seems weird to Sam too. Apart from the occasional chirp from the pigeon and the crisp sound of their boots against the sand the town is eerily silent.

…

Paul Clarkson has a cousin in Hope. He was supposed to meet up with him two days ago so they could go to Paul's mother's funeral in Kansas City together. Paul has never really liked his mother much, and has always found family gatherings to be horribly awkward and bothersome. His cousin Hugh, though, can be fun. Guy is a drunk and a loser, but a nice fellow who he can have a laugh with during aunt Bertha's 60's birthday and stuff like that. But Hugh never showed up and Paul had had to go alone. Paul figured that Hugh had just gotten really pissed and forgotten about it, but when Paul tried to call him when he got home after the funeral, Hugh didn't answer the phone. Actually there was just a robotic voice that informed him that the number couldn't be reached.

And now Paul is standing here, in an abandoned street in the small town of Hope and he is getting really worried. Sure the number of residents in the town is ridiculously low, but that doesn't mean that it's possible for all of them to disappear at the same time. Once or twice he's thought he's seen something move out of the corner of his eye, but when he went to take a closer look, there was nothing to be found. The dead silence in the town is making him a bit uncomfortable too. He agrees with himself that it's probably best to head back to his car and go home. Then he can call the police and they can go back to town and start looking for the residents. And just when he turns and takes a step toward his car, he hears the motor from another car rumble and stop. Judging from the direction the noise is coming from, the car is parked out on the main street. Relieved that he's no longer alone, Paul hurries down the streets. Maybe it's someone from the town. Or at least is someone who knows where the townspeople are? He turns down an ally where a lot of dumpsters smell like they haven't been emptied for days. Paul carries a few pounds of body fat too much and his breath is already coming out in short gasps and his face is red. When he exits the other end of the ally he scares a pigeon, which flaps it wings in surprise and leaves the ground. It takes a few rounds in the air before it lands on top of a dumpster where it gives him an angry stare.  
"Hello?" Paul yells and looks to both sides. At his left, there's an old car parked in the middle of the streets. Two guys are standing in front of it. They have the sun in their backs and he can't make out their faces. But they're tall and lean and one of them appears to be carrying a shotgun. Paul swallows. Behind him, the pigeon squeaks and the dumpster rattles. Maybe he should've just gone straight back to his car. The smaller of the two – and somewhere in the back of his mind Paul thinks that the word small is rather silly phrase to use to describe either of the men – raises his weapon at points it at Paul.  
"Hey! Get aware from there!" he yells and Paul empties his bladder into his pants.

…

The little girl is barefooted. Her skin is dirty, covered in a thick layer of blood and sand. In one hand she is clutching the now dead pigeon. There are soft feathers clinging to the bloody mud in the corners of her mouth. Her meal seems to have lost its appeal to her, now that there a big, fat human just a few steps from her.  
"GET AWAY!" Dean yells again. The man still won't move. It's like he's turned into stone. "I can't shoot her, when he's in the way, Sam!"  
The girl loosens her grip on the bird and it hits the ground with a soft bump. The man looks puzzled and turns around.  
_Idiot,_ Sam thinks. The girl smiles at the man. Only it's not a smile. It's an animal baring its teeth. The man doesn't appear to have realized that she's no longer human. Sam knows that he can't really blame him for that, but he still curses under his breath when the man reaches out a hand.  
"Where are your parents?" the man asks.  
"Don't touch her!" Sam yells as he breaks into a run. The man turns his head and looks at him confused. The girl grips his outstretched hand tight and bites into it. Hard. Tearing flesh from the bones. Blood runs down her chin and drips onto the ground. The man screams and falls to his knees. He tries to pull his hand away from the girls grip, but her fingers are clutching it so hard, that her knuckles have gone white. All sounds disappear. Sam can only hear his own feet against the road. And then a faint distant boom. A red dot appears on the girl's forehead. He shot her in the head. He stops running when he reaches the still kneeling man. With a loud snap his hearing returns and the man's screaming and wailing makes him wince. He is clutching his bleeding hand. Dean catches up to him. There is rattling sound behind him, and Sam sees a woman and two men climb out of the broken window of one of the houses. Across the street two children are climbing down the drain, having exited their house through the second floor-window. They are climbing with their heads down and they remind Sam of spiders. In the other direction more people are appearing.  
"Dean."  
His brother lifts his head; having examined the man's wounded hand until then. The Croats are all silent. So far. They are walking slowly, calmly towards them, but Sam knows that they can be quick when they want to.  
"All right, big guy," Dean says, "if you want to survive, you do exactly as I say."  
The man whimpers and sniffs. Then he nods.  
"You shut up. You pull your shit together. And you run when I say we run."  
Dean takes his gun from the back of his pants and shoves it into the hand that's not bleeding. Sam looks him into the eyes. Dean and he don't have to talk right now. They both know what to do. The car is not far down the street. The only problem is the Croats between it and them. And there's the wounded guy, of course. Sam doubts that he is able to hit anything with Dean's gun. And he doesn't look like a fast runner either. But they are the Winchester-brothers, so they are going to give it a shot.  
Dean pulls the man to his feet.  
"Now," he says.

AN: Thanks for the reviews guys. I am so excited about the fact that there are actual people reading the stuff I post on the internet. There aren't a lot of you (yet) but I appreciate every nice comment you write.

In the next chapter we'll see how the fight plays out through the eyes of Dean. I am excited. Are you?

Love  
Neverhomeless


	5. Chapter 4 - Dean

AN: Sorry about taking such a long time with this chapter! I'm already working on the next though, so I'll try to get that up soon as an apology. I changed the rating because this chapter is pretty gore-ish. Keep reviewing, it makes me happy!

_Chapter 4_

_Dean_

As soon as they break into a run, the croats move. They are pale, ugly things, Dean thinks. In a way they look completely like normal humans, and then not at all. They carry their own weight differently. They're tense, with fingers bent into claws and they don't lift their feet as high as normal people do. It's like they don't feel the world around them, like they don't feel pain. Their hands and feet are bloody from stones cutting into the skin, but it doesn't make them wince. Some of them have crouched down and are running on all fours like animals. One of the women had apparently been pregnant when she was infected. She has aborted the fetus, but not the afterbirth. The virus completely messes up the bodily functions, Dean reckons. The remains of the dead fetus are dangling between her legs, its umbilical cord disappearing into the folds of her dress. It's a very small thing. Blood spattered and ripped apart. Only a few limbs are still clinging together.

The bloodcurdling thing about the scenario is how silent it all is. In front of them, the road is blocked by croats coming quickly towards them with bared teeth. Snapping at their heels are more of the same hungry, twisted things. If they were still human they would be yelling, screaming out their battle cries. Now the only sound they make is a low growl that grows around the three men, vibrating and dark and animalistic. The sound closes in on them as the croats move. Their feet slap against the ground and then, _bam_, one of them falls, blood spatters the ground and Dean realizes that it was him who fired the shot. They keep running and he can see the Impala behind the crowd of hissing croats, the bleeding guy is shouting and screaming and stumbling ever other second so that Dean has to yank him to his feet and Sam is firing again and again, making lifeless bodies collapse. And all the time that growl from the croats, encircling them and the painful hissing when they are hit by a bullet and the slaps of bare feet and bodies hitting the ground, those sounds pressing in on his ears, making them throb, but over it all, the silence is the loudest thing. No matter how loud the bleeding guy screams it doesn't drown out the silence.

Then something yanks at Dean's ankle and he falls and hears a crack and a shot and something is on him. He wants his fingers to keep the gun in a tight grip but they won't listen. When he hits the ground and the air is knocked out of his body it slides away over the sand covering the asphalt. He manages to twist around so that he's on his back before she bends a few of his ribs by landing on his chest. It's the woman, the pregnant one, who's attacked him, and she opens her mouth and it's filled with bloody spit that runs down her chin and drips onto his shirt. He fumbles for his gun while trying to push her off him. He hits her in the face with his right fist, again and again till her jaw is hanging loosely from her skull and her teeth are dangling by meaty threads. Only then does he realize that his whole arm is one big burning bundle of pain, and he thinks that maybe the crack that he heard was the bone breaking. She keeps trying to claw at him, even with her jaw smashed to pieces, and she's making gargling noises and blood keeps coming out of her throat. He keeps trying to reach for his gun, but his arm won't obey him and he's pretty sure that those are tears of pain that are pooling up in the corners of his eyes. Sam shoots her then, and her head explodes all over him and he doesn't even want to throw up because he's seen his share of disgusting things and he's used to it now. If he was able to think he would probably find that quite scary, but he's not, so he just grabs Sam's hand with his good arm and gets on his feet and keeps on running.

It's blurry really. The last few yards to the Impala, that is. It's bloody and ugly and he remembers thinking that the seats are going to be ruined when Sam rips open the door to the backseat and shoves him inside. The other guy, the one who's crying and bleeding and screaming things that Dean just blocks out, he's still there and when Dean notices that he's actually kind of surprised. Well, as surprised as you can be in the barely-conscious state that's he's in right now. When the motor starts and the world outside the windows start moving he lets hit head fall back against the leather that smells like Dad and home. His heart is still pumping violently and adrenaline is still soothing the pain, but it's beginning to hit him and he realizes that he has twisted – or maybe broken – his ankle along with injuring his arm. He can't tell if he's dislodged his shoulder or broken a bone or anything, he just knows that it feels like his right arm is hovering a few inches away from his body and that it is throbbing harder and harder by the second. His palms are burning from when he hit the asphalt and there's a light ringing in his ears that he doesn't know where's coming from.  
"Well that was stupid," he says and laughs at his own miserable state. The laugh turns into coughing and he spits out some blood along with one of his teeth.  
"What was?" Sam asks from the driver's seat.  
"Taking on all those croats on our own. Nearly got goddamn killed out there."  
"We didn't know that there was going to be that many. And I have never seen them so well-organized before."  
Sam leans over and opens the glove compartment with one hand while keeping the other on the wheel.  
"Se if you can fix each other up a little," he says, and Dean suddenly remembers that they are actually two people on the backseat. The other guy has gone silent now, only sniffling a bit every now and then. He's gone very pale too. He's just sitting there, clutching his bleeding hand and looking straight ahead. Dean can't really figure out if he's staring at the back of Sam's seat or just at nothing. He's a little too chubby with a pale, fleshy chin covered by dark beard stubble. At the top of his head there's a shiny bald spot that's probably going to widen fast after this experience. The man is covered in blood and dirt and he's shaking visibly.  
"Hey you," Dean says to him, and the man jerks, suddenly awoken from his hypnotic-like state of mind.  
"What's your name?"  
"It's uh, it's uhm, I mean, it's Paul," he stutters.

When they make it back to the motel it is well into the early hours and at the edge of the horizon a pale, sickly light is slowly making its way up the sky. The man, Paul, hasn't said much during the rest of the drive. At least Dean doesn't think so. He has been drifting in and out of consciousness in his seat for the last few hours. Sam wouldn't let him fall fully asleep though, since he's certain that Dean has a slight concussion.

Castiel wakes up when Sam turns on the lights in their room. The angel has been sleeping with all his clothes on. He pushes away the blankets and slowly sits up and rubs his eyes. Dean can see his gaze move over the three of them, noticing the blood and widening slightly at the sight of the stranger they have brought with them. When he opens his mouth it's not ask about Paul, though.  
"You are hurt," he says and looks directly at Dean. They're all pretty bashed up, but it's still fairly obvious that Dean is the one who has taken the worst beating.  
"No shit Sherlock," Dean answers and maneuvers his tired body towards a chair where he can sit down and take some deep breaths. Maybe Sam is right about the concussion. He is feeling a bit dizzy.  
"It didn't go as well as we hoped it would, Cas" he says. "They were seriously well organized. Had a beautifully planned ambush all ready and prepared when we showed up."  
"Hm," Castiel pushes his eyebrows together and his lips go tight. "And who are you?" he then asks, looking at Paul.  
Sam starts to explain how Paul had gone to Hope to look for his cousin, and Dean reckons that he must have been asleep for a while in the car after all, because he has no memory of Paul telling them that story. While talking, Sam looks through their bags to find a better first aid kit than the one they keep in the car.  
"Let me take a look at that hand," he says to Paul. The man is still quiet. He can't have said anything since he explained to Sam what he was doing in Hope. He's probably in shock. They sit down at the bed and Sam inspects his injury.  
"Cas, you gotta help Dean clean his wounds," Sam says. Castiel just nods. "Did any of her blood get into this wound?" Sam then asks. Paul shakes his head.  
"Are you absolutely sure?"  
Their conversation slides into the background. It's just noise, a murmur at the back of Dean's head. All he wants is to sleep. Castiel brings him a glass of water and he downs it in one gulp. His arm hurts. He thinks he might pass out soon. He took some painkillers in the car, and even though they only have the illegal and really strong kind of pills, it's not enough to suppress the feeling of having his arm full of broken glass.  
"Give me your hand," Castiel says. Dean holds out the hand of his good arm first. The skin of his palm has been burning ever since he got tackled. Castiel tears the paper around an antiseptic tissues and starts cleaning out the bits and pieces of dirt and sand that's jammed into the small, bleeding cuts in his hand. It stings and Dean swears at him.  
"Sorry," Castiel mutters. He keeps his gaze fixated at Dean's hand. His own is shaking a little


	6. Chapter 5 - Gabriel

**AN: Thanks for all the sweet reviews. They make me so happy. This chapter is about Gabriel, and I really wanted it to be funny. Unfortunately I wrote it to be extremely sad instead. Sorry. **

_Chapter 5  
Gabriel_

When Gabriel wakes up his first thought is: "What."

A few moments later he decides to elaborate that statement and so he thinks: "What is happening."

Then it hits him. He is alive. After realizing that, he realizes three other things:

He is lying on the ground.

Judging from the feeling of the texture against the skin of his back he is lying on dirt.

The fact that he is able to feel the dirt against his skin must mean that he is naked.

After pondering about this for another handful of moments, Gabriel decides that he will try opening his eyes to investigate the situation further. So he does. He is staring up into the sky, and since he, quite literally, has his back to the ground, that doesn't come as much of a surprise.

"Up you go son," a voice says, and when Gabriel turns his head towards the sound he sees an outstretched hand that is attached to an outstretched arm. He thinks that there might just happen to be some answers at the other end of that arm, so he grabs onto the hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet.

He is standing in The Garden he realizes. The arm that helped him up seems to be attached to Joshua, the angel famous for his supposed friendship with the old man. The Garden doesn't really appear to Gabriel as a garden. He perceives it more as a forest. The vast, untouched kind of forest, the way he remembers is from the Scandinavian mountains with pine trees and sharp rocks poking out of the steep ground. The air is moist and he can smell the earth. Moss is growing on the trunks of the trees and all different kinds of mushrooms are poking out of the ground where the layer of wilted needles isn't too thick. There's a small track leading into the bushes with clear footprints of a troll passing that way recently. Right now it's a lynx disappearing down the track though. Gabriel sighs. He misses the north.  
"What's… going on?" he asks slowly, still a bit sleepy. If you can call it that. After all he hasn't exactly been sleeping as much as he's been dead.  
"Well son, I'd say it's pretty obvious. But for the sake of the possible confusion you might suffer from, I'll explain it to you: You are in The Garden." Joshua's voice is rusty, the essence of every kind grandpa telling a bedtime story ever. There are wrinkles around his eyes and his remaining teeth are showing in a kind smile. Gabriel has no need for jokes right now, and besides that he's never had a grandpa.  
"Gee, thanks old man," he sneers, "and I don't appreciate you calling me _son. _I am, after all, you elder by just a few millennia."  
"Not any more you aren't," Joshua says, "in fact it's exactly the other way around now. You are just a few minutes old now, kid."  
Gabriel snorts. "Details," he says, "they aren't important."  
A raven shrieks out and takes off through the mist. He watches it, as it disappears over the treetop and he thinks of man he once knew who had two of those birds. That man is long gone now, trampled underfoot by modern civilization and drowned in mass production of alcoholic beverages. An empty shell is all that has been left for centuries now, and the remains were finished off for good by his brother Lucifer. But before all that, before his old friend had been turned into a redneck with anger management issues, he had been a very wise man. A man who always paid attention to details with his one, good eye.  
"Wait," he says, "actually I'd like a bit of details on this whole situation after all. For starters: How exactly is it that I am alive?"  
"Brotherly love I guess," Joshua says and Gabriel could just strangle him, because when the subject is on his brothers, he has no patience for sarcasm.  
"Which one brought me back?" he asks.  
"It was Raphael. Though I hear that it was on Michaels orders."  
"Why?"  
The raven is back. The sound of its wings flapping foretells its presence and Joshua looks up at the sky in the direction of the noise. He lifts an arm and with a shriek the raven lands there. With a few hops is settles itself at his shoulder and shrieks again.  
"You'll have to ask him about that yourself," Joshua says, "ol' Hugin here says he's on his way right now."  
Gabriel stares at the bird through narrowed eyes; "There's no way that that's Hu – ". Before he gets to finish, both Joshua and the bird disappears though. Gabriel would like to think that he managed to drive them away, but he's no way near warmed up enough to be so irritating as to actually chase people off with his snarky comments. They were probably just scared of his big brother eminent arrival. If truth be told, so is he.

Gabriel would like to conjure up some clothes before facing his brothers, but he's weak as a kitten. He tries to reach out with his grace, commands the mist around him to tighten its molecules and turn into water. A few drops hit the earth, but it doesn't lift his spirits. Molding the physical aspects of the world is one of the least power consuming tasks an angel could carry out, and normally he would be able to arrange the entire body of the mountain into a giant statue of Kim Kardashian in the blink of an eye. His grace is only slowly building up after his return to the world of the living and currently he's not capable of hurting a fly, much less defending himself against the wrath of his elder brothers.  
"Gabriel," a voice behind him says, and he sighs. Here they go. "It is good to see you, little brother."  
"I wish I could say the same thing to you, Michael dearest," Gabriel responds, "but I started dreading our encounters many years ago. It was right around the time where you lost the last pitiful bit of your humoristic sense, as far as I recall. What happened? Most people lose their virginity at that age, you know."  
He turns around to face the stern and grave face of the old man's first attempt at an angel (in Gabriel's opinion he didn't really get the hang of it until the fourth). Michael hasn't come alone, he sees, and his mood rises a little. Archangel number three has always been far easier to provoke than the first one.  
"Raphael," he says, and plasters on his broadest smile, "you, however, I am always delighted to see. And wearing a woman today, are we? I didn't know you were into that kind of stuff brother. Or do you want me to call you sister now?"  
Raphael who is, indeed, in a female vessel, twists his facial features into those of anger. "You should show some respect, little brother!" he snarls, "Michael and I have stayed on our posts for thousands of years while you ran off like a coward and – " he is cut off when Michael lifts his hand.  
"Enough," he says, and Gabriel is once again reminded why this is his least favorite brother. Raphael is a bastard, sure, but at least he's easy to read. He's all emotions, raw and uncovered. A bit human, actually. Michael is closed and hard surfaced and expressionless. Gabriel doesn't know when he's making him angry or happy or sad. Usually he knows exactly what tactic to use to push people in either of those directions. He supposes that Michael makes him feel, in a way, powerless. And when you're about the sixth most powerful thing in creation, ranking just below God, Death and the other three archangels, that is not a feeling he gets that often. It makes him a bit uncomfortable.  
"I am sure you are wondering why I have brought you back from the dead, little brother," Michael says, and Gabriel cringes. Does he really have to call him little brother in every single sentence?  
"A long time ago, when the conflict that ripped our family apart was still raging, you turned your back on us, your family, and ran away,"  
"Now, I wouldn't use that phrasing exactly –" Gabriel begins, but finds that the rest of the words are stuck in his throat. Quite literally. It's not like nerves have ever gotten to Gabriel, so he suspects that some sort of trickery must be going on.  
"Thank you Raphael," Michael says, and the dark skinned female glares maliciously at Gabriel. Michael picks up his speech again, this time with Gabriel being unable to interrupt.  
"You betrayed us, little brother. You ignored your responsibilities and hid. Like a coward. We thought you dead for many years until you suddenly surfaced again in that hotel. And you were surrounded by… _pagans_." At that last word Michael's voice shows, for the first time, a hint of emotion. Unfortunately it's disgust, and Gabriel's last hope of this conversation ending with a brotherly hug and a pardon flickers and dies. Well, there's wasn't really much of that hope to begin with.  
"It was a great embarrassment to see you keep such company, Gabriel," Michael continues, "and Raphael was close to convincing me that I ought to punish you for your insolence."  
Gabriel is getting suspicious. There's no way Michael is just going to reconcile with him like that. He must have something else up his sleeve. Why would he bring him back if he didn't? And indeed, the next thing Michael says makes Gabriel really fear for his own wellbeing.  
"Instead of punishing you, however, I have decided to give you a chance to receive absolution for the sins of the past."  
Great, Gabriel thinks. So he _is _going to punish me. He's just come up with some fancy word for it.  
"I have a heavenly mission for you on Earth, little brother. Carry that out, and you shall return to our family as our equal with all of your past betrayal forgotten."  
For some reason Gabriel highly doubts that. Forgiveness might have been his father's to preach, but most of his brothers believe his father either dead or to never have existed at all, so his ideology isn't really worth a damn in Heaven these days.  
Michael lifts a hand again and Gabriel finds his ability to speak to be restored.  
"So you want me to carry out some of that dirty work that doesn't really suit that whole angels being beautiful loving creatures made of light-line of thinking," he says, "I get that, you wouldn't want to ruin your image. But what if I refuse?"  
Michael frowns, as if he couldn't possibly imagine why Gabriel wouldn't be eager to join their ranks of murderous fanatics.  
"Then we will just have to end your life again, little brother."  
"Great. That's fine with me," Gabriel lifts his gaze and stares, for the first time, directly into the eyes of his big brother. He makes one last attempt to plead with him, still believing that somewhere in that cold heart of his there's bound to be some actual love for his family. That belief is what kept him from leaving Heaven for a long time. No matter how horrible his brothers treated each other, Gabriel always hoped, always refused to believe that it would really come to what it eventually came to. He always forgave his brothers at that time, over and over again.  
"Michael," he says, "listen to me. _Please_. My existence has been long and painful. But I had finally found my peace. I don't want to be a part of this war. I don't want to see my brothers killing each other. I was dead. Why couldn't you just… leave me be?"  
"Pull yourself together," Raphael says. This time Michael doesn't stop him. "You're a pathetic excuse for an angel. You make me sick, and if it was up to me, you would be thrown into Hell to suffer along with the monkeys. But our merciful older brother has decided to offer you a way out of your sin for which you should show some gratitude."  
Gabriel swallows a lump in his throat and abandons the tactic of actually believing in some good in his brothers. "Forgive me for not tripping over my feet in my hurry to kiss his feet. But I am done with this world."  
"If you refuse to do as I say, I have no choice but to throw you into the depths of Hell as Raphael suggests. I cannot let you perish without doing penance for your sins. The fires of Hell will burn away those dark spots upon your grace. Don't you see that I am doing this because I love you, Gabriel?"  
Michael would be more convincing if his facial features actually moved while he professed his love for his little brother. He sounds like a kid reading aloud from Dostoyevsky, who doesn't at all understand the words coming out of his mouth. Still, Gabriel is now tempted to take his offer of doing a little legwork for Heaven. Hell is _not _a nice place, and the demons down there would be thrilled to have an angel's grace to play with.  
"Fine," he sighs, "what do you want me to do?"  
"I want you to go to Earth," Michael says. "And then I want you to seek out the Winchesters."  
"It's always about those two idiots, isn't it?" Gabriel mumbles.  
"Be quiet. Lucifer is losing his patience. He has decided to spread the Croatoan-virus on the Earth. I understand that you have met the Winchester-brothers on several occasions. You will convince them to say yes to being vessels. You will convince them _both_."  
Gabriel laughs. "Dear brother, are you _still _trying to carry out that plan? The Winchesters are the two most stubborn people I have ever met. Give up. They will never budge."  
"We have to make one last attempt. Lucifer may have changed a lot since he left our family, but he still carries a certain respect for our traditions. Our fight is the one battle that will determine the outcome of this war. And he is as keen on ending it as I am."  
"Why don't you just fight then?" Gabriel asks. "He is using that Nick-guy as his vessel. And I must say that Adam Milligan really suits you. You have your vessels. Hit it, and end all this."  
"I would if I could," Michael says. "But Lucifer insists that the final battle must be with our true vessels by our side. And he is losing his patience. We have to move quickly."  
"Wait a minute… have you been _negotiating_ with him?"  
Michael doesn't seem to be affected by his remark. "Irrelevant," he says. "As may know, Lucifer seems to have started quite the companionship with Pestilence."  
"Yeah, I know. Never liked that guy. Crazy fella. Likes to experiment, did you know? Says that the Spanish flu was his greatest achievement."  
"I am aware of the joy Pestilence takes in developing new diseases. He sees it as a form of art. Now Lucifer has given him the tools to go further than he ever has. Together they have modified the Croatoan-virus."  
Something in the way Michael says "modified" makes Gabriel's blood curl.  
"What do you mean?" he asks.  
"It's more effective now. It will infect all of humanity in a very short amount of time. And they have added some… quirks." This sparks Gabriel's curiosity, but he saves his questions for later. Michael continues: "This is nothing we've ever seen before. But that is not all. Somehow it affects angels now too."  
"_What?_" Gabriel freezes. Affects angels? And Michael and Raphael want to send him to Earth, where the virus will soon be raging? This is quite the punishment. He didn't think that even his brother could be this heartless.  
"Stop look so frightened," Raphael says. "It's not like it turns _us _into raging bloodthirsty animals. Humans are feeble, that's why it's so easy to change their behavior. Us it just weakens, that's all."  
"Don't understate its effects," Michael says. "The angels on Earth that have been near the laboratories where Pestilence works have gone completely powerless. The virus feeds on our grace. Of course an archangel wouldn't be entirely immobilized."  
Then the penny drops for Gabriel. "Oh. So that's why you need me. You can't go to Earth yourself, because you'll be trapped there, too weak to return to Heaven. Instead you'll send me down so I can be devoured by croats. That's a great idea."  
"It better than what you deserve," Raphael says.  
Gabriel is getting desperate. "Brother, this plan is foolish. There's no way, I am going to succeed. The Winchesters will never say yes. You are going to _fail._"  
Michael ignores his plea. "Do you accept my offer or do you choose Hell, little brother?"  
Gabriel's stomach knots itself into a tight little ball. He remembers when Lucifer drove his blade into his stomach and the look in his brother's eyes as he died. Anger and sorrow. There is no easy way out of this.  
"Fine," he says. "I accept."

**What did you think? I grew up on the stories from northern mythology and I like the fact that Gabriel has been posing as Loki for all those years. So I decided to include bits and pieces about his past. How did that work out? And do you like the plot so far? I will get to some angsty destiel soon because, well, who doesn't like that. **


	7. Chapter 6 - Castiel

**AN: So this is the part where this is no consistency **_**at all **_**to what length the chapters have. This is huge. Like, really fucking huge compared to the other chapters. But hey, there's some porn at the end. Enjoy. **

_Chapter 6_

_Castiel_

Dean is sleeping, completely knocked out by a mixture of whiskey and the illegal painkillers that the Winchesters carry with them. The sun has risen and honey coloured stripes are painting the floor. It's early, the sky outside is still spotted with pink on the eastern horizon and the parking lot outside the motel is quiet. Castiel has just returned from the bakery down the street. He has bought some bread with the money that Sam handed him before dosing off on the bed next to Dean's. Castiel carefully places the paper bag at the table in the middle of the room, making sure that he doesn't crush the pie that he also purchased. He still finds the whole experience of eating to be quite overwhelming. The only thing he's able to hold down is water and toasted, dry bread, but he had some extra money and he knows that Dean likes pie, so he decided to buy some. Maybe he'll even have a taste himself.  
"Hey," Paul says. He is sitting on a chair next to the table. His voice is weak and tired. Castiel doesn't really know how to act towards the man. He knows that most humans find him strange because he's not adjusted to the social norm that they have lived with their entire lives. Paul will most likely distance himself from Castiel too. It's pure sociology, he knows that. If he can't communicate in the language of the group, humans will perceive him as too weak to join them. He opens his mouth to say "hello" to Paul, but changes it to "hey" at the last moment. He has heard people use that phrase far more often than "hello", though he can't really figure out why. "Hey" feels strange and unfamiliar in his mouth and he decides to just stick with "hello" in the future.  
"How are you?" he asks Paul.  
"I, uh… actually I'm not really sure how to answer that question."  
Castiel is unsure where to go from here, so he just sits down on a chair next to Paul. At least he is doing a good job on controlling his body today. He is fiddling with a piece of paper that he has ripped off the paper bag to soften up his fingers, and he allows himself a small smile, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, when manages to cross the index- and ring finger on his right hand. He could do it a few days ago with his left, but he has been struggling with the right one. He bends and wriggles his fingers on both hands and balls them into fists. Then it hits him: He is left handed. The realization is so human and down to earth goddamned rightthat it makes him dizzy. This time he smiles for real. All humans grow up knowing which hand they work best with and now Castiel knows it too. Now he has that one stone to build himself on, now he knows that one thing about Castiel the human. Ever since his grace started to wilt he has felt somewhat in-between; always one foot in Heaven and one on Earth. Even after the last sparks of angelic "mojo", as Dean calls it, left him, he hasn't felt like he belonged anywhere. Now, just for a short shimmering moment, he feels both his feet has hit the ground in Sam and Dean's world and he is _left handed _and he only fell once while going down to the bakery. So even though he had some trouble picking up the change from the counter, he is a little bit happy, and compared to the large amount of nothing he usually feels, it's overwhelming.  
That's why it makes his cheeks heat up when Paul says: "You seem a very stiff. Got arthritis or something, man? In your hands, I mean? "  
"Or something," Castiel answers, and he knows that he has to keep practicing, because he still isn't doing things completely right. It doesn't bother him that much though, because he's left handed and nothing can hurt him right now.  
"Those two," Paul says. and tilts his head towards Sam and Dean, "they your friends?"  
Castiel nods. "Yes, they are. We are very close." He really wants to talk to Paul. Not because he finds the man interesting. Actually Paul seems like a very tedious human. But he wants to practice his social skills. He knows that Paul asked the question to try to open up a conversation. It is appropriate that his answer is interesting and that it should possible to come up with a question or perhaps a humorous remark after he has spoken. He decides to expand his remark.  
"They are the closest thing I have to a family," he says.  
"Sam told me that he and Dean hunt… things," Paul says, and his voice shakes a bit, "you work with them?"  
"I used to, yes. Back when I was stronger." Castiel can't stop his voice from shaking a little bit too. He hopes that Paul doesn't notice it. He knows that he is useless now that he is without his angelic powers and he doesn't want his good mood to be ruined by that cold feeling that sweeps over him whenever he thinks about it.  
"It's crazy," Paul says. "All of this. It's crazy. I can't wait to go home." Castiel is not entirely sure what he's talking about, so he keeps quiet. Sam is planning on driving Paul to the train station later today so he can get home. Then they'll call Bobby, he said, when Castiel asked about the next step in the plan. It means that they're lost, he knows. If they are going to clear out the infected town, they are going to need help from other hunters – and even if they are able to find any hunters who are willing to work with them, it's going to take a while to gather them all. The virus will spread. And they can't stop it. Dean won't be in any condition to fight in the conceivable future and Sam can't go in alone. They're screwed, but no one wants to say it out loud. Castiel wonders how Sam and Dean can _stand _all of these thoughts constantly going through their heads. He was just happy, _just now_, it was a few moments ago, and now he's cold again and he doesn't even want to think about either the future or the past, but the more he tries to push it out of his head, the stronger the thoughts knock on the gates to his brain.

"I'm left handed," Castiel tells Dean. Sam has left the two of them alone while he drives Paul to the train station. It's just past noon and both he and Dean look pale and used and done. Castiel reckons that they haven't gotten enough sleep. He has been trying to figure out how much sleep the human body exactly needs per night, but the past few days a lurking suspicion that it might differ depending on how much energy you spend during the day has started to form in his mind.  
"Oh." Dean says. Castiel licks his lips and wonders what to say. He had expected Dean to be a little more excited about his discovery, but then again, this might not be big deal to the hunter. Dean is lying in bed on top of the covers. He has a few pillows pushed behind his back and his right arm wrapped up in bandages and balancing in a sling that hangs around his neck. Sam fixed him up after the two of them woke up, showing Castiel how to tie up the ends of the bandage along the way. He had asked Castiel to have a go at Dean's arm, but Dean had put a stop to the lesson before he had a chance to answer. Dean had said something about not wanting "to be poked by a guy who couldn't even tie his own shoelaces yet". Castiel's cheeks had gone hot after that comment. Dean had been annoyed with him when he cleaned the scratches in his palms. He said that Castiel pressed the cloth into the wounds way too hard and that he should be more careful when taking care of things like this.

His cheeks are burning hot again now. Sam had tried to help Dean into a shirt, but the older Winchester yelled and cursed every time he brushed his injured arm, so in the end he gave up; now he isn't wearing anything but jeans and a pair of boxers. Castiel can see the elastic band where the trousers have slid down Dean's hips. The white fabric of the boxers stand in sharp contrast to the tanned skin that stretches over the bone and dips down in those two symmetric valleys on both sides of his zipper, diving down between muscles that are tight and tense because of the pain in his arm and Castiel truly needs to think about something else right now because the sight of Dean's stomach muscles is making him sweat and shake. He decides that now is a really good moment to tell him about the pie that he has bought. This time Dean's face lights up and Castiel revels in the opportunity to get up and turn his back on the hunter, swallowing large mouthfuls of air and counting to ten and practicing crossing his fingers. When he has regained a fair amount of self control he unpacks the pie and cuts Dean a slice. He grabs the paper bag to wrap up the pie again, when Dean asks; "Aren't you gonna try some?"  
He looks a bit disappointed, so Castiel keeps down a sigh and cuts himself as small a slice as possible. "Dude, you're gonna love it!" Dean says and Castiel can hear an actual trace of happiness in his voice for the first time in weeks. His insides flutter and a prickling sensation starts up at the skin of his stomach and continues all the way down to his toes.  
He hands Dean his slice on a plastic plate and sits down at the table again. Dean quickly has to give up eating by on his own though. Both his hands are covered in bandages after that unpleasant encounter with the ground in Hope and only one of his arms is operable. So Castiel sits down at the bed and uses his hands to get himself into a cross-legged position. The first time he lifts the fork his hands are shaking so bad that he drops the piece of pie. When he finally succeeds in lifting some of the crumbs to Dean's mouth, he suddenly becomes very conscious about the sound of his own breathing. Isn't it very loud? And is Dean noticing the patches of sweat that must have gathered in the armpits of his shirt by now? Dean never has patches of sweat in his armpits, he is either completely covered in sweat that makes his shirt cling tight or he doesn't sweat at all. And Dean's breathing is never loud or stupid and he certainly never is this nervous or insecure around Castiel. Dean is the kind of man that takes long strides and holds himself proudly and knows who he is and where he stands, even though his place is horrible and clouded and full of pain. Castiel barely is a man at all.

Dean insists that Castiel takes a bite between the pieces he's feeding him. The pie is sugary and sour and sweet and soft and dry and so many things at once that his stomach squirms and fights to get it back up. Castiel bites his teeth together and keeps it down and tells Dean that it tastes amazing. When Dean takes some more painkillers and falls asleep again afterwards, he stumbles into the bathroom and coughs and cries from the pain when his stomach muscles twists and turns and he vomits into the toilet. His throat burns and his nose and eyes are running and he spits and spits to get the last halfway dissolved crumbs out of his mouth. When he makes the mistake of looking into toilet bowl and the slimy red and yellow stuff with _chunks _floating around in it smells so bad that he feels his stomach turn itself out again. This time it's more painful and he can't stop himself from crying while the stomach acid burns the skin inside him away and it just tastes _horrible._ Afterwards he just stares into the floor and lets his eyes and nose drip all they want until the room finally stops spinning around him. He gathers himself and gets to his feet and flushes out the sickly stuff. Afterwards he takes a shower and it makes him feel like he's drowning. Sam finds him there, at the bottom of the shower cabin, with his arms around his knees and that horrible taste still in his mouth. This morning he was enjoying the color of the sun's stripes on the floor and the fact that he could cross his fingers. Now his hair is dripping wet and the drops are trailing down his face. He hopes that Sam can't tell the difference between those and his tears, but he's not sure if they look like each other at all.  
"Cas? What are you doing?" Sam has that worried, confused expression on his face. His eyebrows are pushed together and his mouth is bit open and he just looks at Castiel with those big eyes that make him regret the time he called Sam an abomination.  
"I took a shower." Castiel says.  
"You are supposed to take your clothes off, Cas." Sam says.  
"Oh. I didn't know that." He had just assumed that you were supposed to wash your clothes along with washing your body. It had seemed so logical at the time. Now he feels even more stupid than before.  
"Are you all right?"  
"I ate a slice of pie."  
"Why? I didn't think you could stomach anything these days?"  
"Dean wanted me to taste it. It came up again."  
Sam sighs. He doesn't force Castiel to elaborate his story though.  
"Let me help you out of those clothes."  
He doesn't ask any more questions, just helps him unbutton his shirt and unzip his jeans and Castiel doesn't understand why his skin doesn't prickle when it is Sam's hands that accidently brushes his skin. Sam shows him how to dry himself with a towel and Castiel thanks him. Dean is still sleeping and Sam doesn't say that he won't mention the event to him and Castiel doesn't ask him to keep it a secret, but somehow he knows that Sam won't talk about it with his brother. Sam finds a pair of jeans and a shirt in Dean's duffel since Sam himself is about eight times as big as Castiel. Still Castiel has to roll up the sleeves so that his hands won't disappear. When he crouches down to fold the bottom of the jeans it hits him how much Dean the fabric smells like Dean, a bit of sweat and a little bit of gasoline and of his deodorant and of all the dirt he has dug his way through wearing these clothes. It's the smell of hard work and just _Dean _and it's awfully pleasant to be wrapped up in this aroma. He is ripped out of his thoughts when Sam asks him if he wants to learn to brush his teeth, and Castiel says yes, because he is enjoying wearing Dean's clothes a little bit too much so he needs the distraction and besides that, he still has that horrible taste in his mouth.

Castiel asks Sam when they are going to leave for Bobby's to plan out their next move, and Sam says that it can probably wait for tomorrow. Castiel catches the way Sam's eyes flicker towards his sleeping brother as he is talking, and he feels a wave of love for the youngest Winchester. Sam wants Dean to get as much rest as possible before they keep on fighting. This morning he insisted on taking Dean to a real hospital to get his arm looked at, but Dean promptly refused. Castiel knows that Sam cares a great deal about his brother. Castiel cares about Dean too. It's confusing really, because they both have the same emotion. And yet Castiel doesn't feel like he cares about Dean in the same way Sam does. How can one emotion be two emotions? It's illogical and makes his head hurt. He sits down at one of the beds while Sam is sitting at the table with his computer. Castiel has found a notepad on a shelf. The motel's name is printed in the top right corner of all the pages. There's a pen too, also with the name of the motel on it. He needs to sort out his thoughts, needs to organize it all. So he takes the pen and writes with large, childish letters at the top of the first page: HUMAN THINGS I NEED TO REMEMBER OR THINK ABOUT  
Beneath the title he starts a list.

I am left handed.

You are supposed to shower without being dressed.

Brush teeth in the morning and before going to bed.

…

He stares at the fourth line for a while, heart beating in his chest. He knows what he should write, but he also knows that once he has written it, he has admitted it to himself and he can't push it out of his head anymore. He fiddles with the pen for at bit, before he writes.

Homosexual

He stares at the word for several minutes. It's small and ugly and he gets that knot in his stomach again. He adds a question mark behind the word. That little stupid word that he just knows will give him problems. The image of the pornographic movie that he accidently saw last night flashes through his head and he gives a small jump. Sam looks up at him, once again with that worried expression on his face.  
"I'm fine," Castiel assures him and manages a weak smile.

He feels stupid and selfish, because it's the Apocalypse for God's sake and here he's having a fit out about his own sexuality. He's probably going to die soon anyway, so why is he even bothering to think about it? He ignores that tiny little voice that tells him that the reason is called Dean and asks Sam if he will show him how to clean a gun. Right now he has to remain focused on the bigger image, the greater cause, and not allow himself to get distracted by personal issues. When you're trying to save the world your own wellbeing is irrelevant, and if he ruins everything just because he can't accept what Sam and Dean have accepted a long time ago, he will perish in shame. In another life in another world he might have the time and opportunity to sit down and think things through and cry and talk to a therapist about his broken family, but in this world that's just not going to happen. So he curls the stupid list into a ball and sticks it down his pocket and goes to find a gun that he can practice on.  
"Which one should I try cleaning first?" he asks Sam. Sam doesn't answer. He's staring intently at his computer screen, squinting his eyes and gnawing at his bottom lip.  
"Sam?"  
"Pack your things, Cas." Sam says.  
"What are you –"  
"Pack your things. We are going to Bobby's. Now."  
Sam slams the computer shut and throws it into his bag with an unusual lack of care of his beloved piece of technology.  
"Sam, what's going on?" Castiel asks.  
"There have been three more outbreaks as far as I can tell. One in Alaska and two in Russia. It hasn't come to public attention yet. It looks like they are keeping a lid on it." Sam's voice is flat and hard and so very serious that it scares Castiel a bit.  
"Go wake Dean up." Sam says.  
It's rushed and panicky and Dean is in a horrible mood when Castiel wakes him up. After Sam briefs him on the situation he jumps up and starts piling up their weapons in a bag with his good arm. He yells at Castiel when he's too slow and fumbles and trips over his own feet. When Castiel helps Dean squeeze into a shirt, the hunter looks practically ready to murder him.  
"Jesus Cas, you'd think becoming human would give you just a tad more understand of the whole concept of pain!" he growls, while Castiel carefully pulls the sleeve down over the bandages. "Ouch, watch it! How many times do I have to tell you not to touch the skin?"  
"I'm doing my best, Dean" he says, lifting the arm back into Dean's sling under at string of first class Winchester curses that makes him go red. It all just makes him feel small and stupid and he just wants to be able to do it all like the Winchesters do it, to just forget about the background noise and _focus _when it really matters. He stands still for five seconds, gathering himself. To his own embarrassment at few tears are trying to squeeze their way out of his eyes.  
"For God's sake Cas, don't just stand there, _move_!" Dean yells and pushes him out of the way so he can start loading the Impala with all their stuff.

The drive is horrible and long and Castiel gets carsick once again. Dean passes out in the backseat, the chemicals from the pills still rushing through his veins. Riding shotgun helps a bit, Castiel discovers. After a few miles Sam starts relaxing a bit and tells Castiel to focus his eyes on a point on the horizon straight ahead. He's still covered in cold sweat and his stomach is still moving in little sickening jumps, but after that he doesn't throw up again. They take advantage of the fact that Dean is out cold and listen to someone called Janis Joplin who has snuck herself into Dean's collection of classic rock tapes.  
"He doesn't mean to be so rough on you, you know," Sam says. "He's just worried. You used to be so strong. And now he has to take care of you too."  
The lady's voice is kind of nice to listen to Castiel thinks and he looks at a plane taking off into the skies far ahead of them. His mouth is a bit dry and he drinks some water from one of the plastic bottles that Sam has packed. He practices wiggling his toes for a bit while the silence presses down on him, getting heavier and heavier.  
"I never asked him to take care of me," he finally says. And Dean isn't really taking care of him, he wants to add. The only thing Dean does these days is yell at him. Castiel doesn't want a babysitter. He doesn't want to be pitied. He had just hoped that Dean and he could finally be equals.  
"I know. It's just… he looks at you and is reminded of what you've sacrificed for him. That's gotta hurt."  
Those tears are trying to bust out again and he turns his head, counting the cows on a field they drive past while he digs his fingers into his thighs.  
"I didn't fall for his sake only," he says with a thick voice. The lie burns his tongue.  
"You didn't?" Sam asks. He sound genuinely surprised. Castiel doesn't answer and they don't really talk for the rest of the trip.

"Finally!" Bobby says when the Impala rolls into Singer Salvage Yard. He looks weary and older than usual. When they are gathered inside, the first thing Bobby does is to pour all of them a glass of unidentifiable golden liquid from a naked brown bottle.  
"What the hell is this crap, Bobby?" Dean asks after smelling it and wrinkling his nose.  
"Ya' not supposed to smell it kid," Bobby says and whacks him over the head. "'made it m'self. For moments like this."  
"What's wrong?" Sam asks, all worry and concern. "Did something happen? Besides the new outbreaks, I mean."  
When Bobby looks away, Castiel smells the liquid in his glass. It strong and sickening and smells a bit like rot.  
"Just drink up and I'll tell ya," Bobby says. Sam and Dean down their glasses and Castiel does too after writhing under Dean's insisting gaze for a few moments. He resists the urge to cough as it burns its way down his body and silently thanks his possibly non-existing father for the previous days' practice in keeping vomit down.  
"Your new friend, that Paul Clarkson-guy you told me about over the phone… well yeah, he turned."  
But that can't be, Castiel thinks. Sam had asked Paul a thousand times if any of the Croatoan-infected humans had gotten their blood into his wound. Paul had insured him that that was not the case. And even he had lied he should have turned a long time before he left the motel. Both Sam and Dean look just as confused as him.  
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean asks.  
"I didn't want to tell you over the phone. But it happened while he was on the train. The police think it's some sort of rabies. He attacked at lot of people. A hunter in the area heard in their radio and called me."  
Castiel digs his nails into the soft flesh inside his palms. He can feel the situation slipping out of their grasp and sliding down the steep hills.  
"They shot him," Bobby says.  
They are all silent for a few moments, brains working hard to digest the news.  
"But that's not possible," Sam finally says. "He couldn't have turned while he was on the train. It's just not possible Bobby."  
"Then what do ya' suggest?" Bobby says, "Some other idjit carrying the virus just happens to be on the same train? I ain't buying it. It was him."  
Sam sighs, rubs his hand over his face like a tired old man.  
"Well I better see if I can hack into the police database and check the autopsy report," he says. "Hopefully they've filed photos of the corpse along with the medical data. I'll tell you if it's him as soon as I know."  
He sits down at Bobby's desk and retrieves his laptop from his bag. Bobby puts down the bottle next to him, and he pours himself a glass. Castiel wishes more than ever that he still had his angelic powers so he could help Sam's body regain some of that energy that it is so clearly missing.  
Bobby instructs Castiel to hit the books to figure out if there's anything on the Croatoan virus that they can possibly have missed. When Sam tells Bobby about the outbreaks he has located in Russia and Alaska the old hunter looks more worried than Castiel has ever seen him. They decide that they better check up on all the demonic omens there has been for the last few days, see if any of them can mean a new outbreak. Dean places himself on the floor with a huge map over the world with two large stacks of papers next; one consisting of ripped out articles from newspapers all concerning weird outbreaks of rabies or whole towns suddenly going silent, the other pile being file upon file of Bobby's cases retrieved from his dusty archives. Following a hunch, Castiel adds an old scroll about the four horsemen to his stack of books on The Lost Colony where the disease first showed its ugly face. Along with the scroll he also takes another glass of the horrible homebrew of Bobby's. Then he sits down in the creaking couch and flips through the first pages. He tries not to let his eyes dart towards Dean too often. He looks beautiful though, sitting cross legged on the floor, surrounded by maps and papers and occasionally running a hand through his hair. The afternoon sun has the same color as syrup and the dust is lazily floating around the shimmering air. When Dean bows his head down to study the map closer, a line of freckles on the skin just above his collar becomes visible and Castiel would like to run his fingers over them. He empties his glass just to shake himself out his thoughts and returns to his books. They work mostly in silence. The dry rustling of paper and the tapping of Sam's fingers on the keyboard are the only sounds apart from the occasional request of the bottle being passed on to one of them and Bobby's mumbling in the kitchen while talking on the phone. At one point Sam confirms that the madman on the train was Paul, and after their hope of the man making it home safe all right has been shattered they just work on. The sun's light changes color from golden syrup to that of old leaves and Bobby makes a run into town for some takeout. They leave the library for a depressing dinner in the kitchen. Dean is irritable and Sam is quiet and Bobby finds an old crumbled pack of cigarettes in a drawer. He lights one himself and holds out the pack to the rest of them. To Castiel's surprise Sam is the first one to take one, and without thinking he mimics the action. Dean mumbles something about cancer and idiots but ends up taking one himself.  
The lighter is old and worn out and hardly manages to produce a flame for Dean after both Bobby and Sam has used it. In Castiel's stiff and clumsy hands nothing happens at all. That's when it happens. Dean leans over really close and says "here Cas, lemme help you," around the smoke between his lips. He puts a hand on the side of Castiel's face and Castiel almost jumps out of his chair at the unexpected skin-on-skin contact. Dean's palm is rough.  
"Sit still dammit," Dean says and leans closer and sweat breaks out on Castiel's forehead. The hand on his face slides down a bit and grips his jaw tight, the thumb pressing into his cheek. Castiel's heart is beating so violently, out of control and loud and hot and his mouth goes dry and he rubs his sweaty palms against the fabric of his jeans. When the ember of Dean's cigarette touches Castiel's the hunter sucks in sharply so it flares up and turns red and the tip of Castiel's smoke is lit.  
"Inhale," Dean orders, leaning back into his own chair and removing his hand, and so Castiel does. At first he coughs, of course, embarrassing himself but making Dean laugh.  
"Idiot," he says, but with a small smile clinging to one corner of his mouth. Castiel puffs out smoke with every cough, but Sam is coughing a bit too, so it's not so bad. Eventually he gets the hang of it, and even though it tastes bad it makes him dizzy in a relaxing sort of way, and when he rubs the last piece of the cigarette into the ashtray on the kitchen table he feels almost sort of okay for once.

It doesn't last though, the good feeling. Of course it doesn't. The world is ending, after all, and it's their responsibility to fix it. The rest of the evening sweeps by in a blur heated arguments and more cigarettes and a couple of those stomach turning glasses of homebrew. When they decide to call it a night, they still haven't really gotten anywhere nearer figuring out what their next step should be and Sam and Dean are close to ripping off each other's heads. Sam wants to go for Lucifer now, while they still now where he is, and say yes to being his vessel. After all, he argues, they have the horsemen's rings, and it's the closest thing they have to forming a plan right now. Dean, however, flares up and explodes every time Sam talks about saying "yes" and in the end Bobby cuts through and yells at them.  
"You two, cut it! Now we all need a good night's sleep, and ya'll ain't gonna figure anything out right now. So Sam and I'll sleep upstairs and Dean, you and Cas can drag out the mattress and sleep in the library since you two idjit brothers can't be in the same room right now."

So that's how they end up there, alone. The old mattress that's usually pushed upright against the wall lets out a cloud of dust when Dean flips it onto the floor. Of course they only have the one, Castiel thinks. Bobby could have had two single-person mattresses lying around, which would be a lot easier to store. But no, he only has one that's meant for two people. Or one and a half. It doesn't really look that wide. While Castiel kneels down and covers the mattress with a moth-eaten sheet, Dean works his shirt off over his head, wincing at the pain when his injured arms is twisted a bit. The light in the room is turned out, but it's a full moon outside and the skin on Dean's torso is colored a pale silver blue in the dark. Dean has ripped the bandages off his hands during the day, and even though they are rough and swollen, he's still the one who's better man at fine motor control. When he helps Castiel unbutton his jeans his heart jumps all the way up into his throat until he's almost choking on it. They undress in silence and sit down at the mattress, lighting one last cigarette each. They don't talk; they just sit there, in their boxers, a fallen angel and a hunter who's lived through more tragedy than most. In the middle of the end of the world they just sit there and look at each other for a while, until they lie down under the covers and mutters goodnight. Castiel is not sure how much of the homebrew he's drunk during the evening, but now he can really feel it, making him dizzy and when he closes his eyes it feels like the mattress is a raft, floating on the quiet ocean far away from here. He doesn't want to sleep. He doesn't want the dreams. Not the nightmares or… the other kind of dreams. So he forces himself to stay awake for as long as possible, lying on his side and staring at the wooden legs of Bobby's couch. He listens to Dean's even breath and the rustling of fabric and thinks of his brothers in Heaven and of times long gone. Being stationed in Egypt and covering over Balthazar when he snuck out to endorse himself in the joys of the human body, overseeing the construction of the pyramids with Uriel at his side, watching Anna go more quiet and thoughtful for each day that passed. Eventually she would disappear and break Uriel's heart, he would turn cold and merciless and Balthazar would start taking advantage of their fleeting awareness of their surroundings more and more, often disappearing for years at a time, telling them some story about chasing demons, when Castiel knew he had just been out enjoying himself. Their group would fall apart, yes. But those days in Egypt, before thoughts about freedom and independence were born in his head and they were all still something that resembled happy, those days were nice. They were uncomplicated. Yes Anna had her doubts and Uriel had liked killing a bit too much and Balthazar was always a bit too uncontrollable for an angel, but sometimes he wishes that he could just go back.  
His thoughts are interrupted when he realizes that the even breathing he has been listening to isn't that even anymore. Actually it would more qualify as raspy now. Is Dean having a nightmare?  
He's not.  
"Oh," is everything Castiel manages to say.  
"Dammit Cas, I thought you were asleep," Dean says.  
"Sorry," Castiel answers.  
Dean has pulled his boxers down a bit. His hand is still sliding over his erect penis, albeit more slowly now; as if he's just trying to maintain his erection until Castiel turns his back on him again. Castiel feels like he's exploding inside. Dean's penis is thick and the head is glistening a little. When his fingers touch the slit, the muscles in his thighs tense up, and Castiel could just watch that movement over and over until the world ended.  
"Dude, look, I know it's a bit weird, but it's been a while, okay?" Dean whispers. His voice is deep and wet and aroused. "Could you just turn, like, over again and leave me to, you know… finish the job?"  
"Uhm… yeah." Castiel croaks. But who'se he kidding, it's not like he can move an inch. He can't even tear his eyes away from Dean's crotch.  
"Cas?" Dean whispers, turning his head towards him for the first time in their hushed conversation. "Why aren't you turning?"  
Castiel bites his lip. It's the end of the, he tells himself. They're going to die soon anyway. It doesn't matter if he embarrasses himself now. But Dean is his best friend, another voice argues. Or at least he used to be. While his insides fight the time passes and Castiel simply can't have that. He has to make a decision now.  
"How do you…" he starts out, voice then dying. He is pretty sure that he has never blushed this violently before in his entire existence. "Dean, I don't know how to – would you mind explaining, uhm…"  
"Oh," Dean says. Then he's silent for a while. A long while. A one point he opens his mouth as if to speak, but then he closes it again.  
"Sorry," Castiel mumbles, and turns over, away from Dean. He feels like he's sinking into the floor. He will never survive waking up next to Dean after this.  
"Don't tell Sam, okay?" Dean then whispers. Castiel doesn't say anything. He just looks at Dean, swallowing a lump in his throat.  
"Take off your boxers."  
He lifts himself off the mattress and slides the fabric down his waist, pushes the boxers off himself and onto the floor at the foot of the mattress. Dean then moves a hand towards him and Castiel flinches. It turns out he is just moving the blanket, lying Castiel bare. Acting on an impulse, Castiel tugs off his t-shirt too, lying completely naked next to his friend. It's not dark enough to hide that fact that he's aroused.  
"Have you never done this before?" Dean asks. He has propped himself up on one elbow, watching Castiel undress. He is all muscle and bone and wet lips that a tongue every now and then darts out and touches. And then there's the hand still moving over his cock in slow, relaxed movements.  
"No, I… I wasn't sure how." Castiel says. He can't look Dean in the eye while admitting it.  
"Just… just lie down on your back and relax," Dean says. "Close your eyes and breathe." So Castiel does that. Something touches him in the dark. Dean grabs a hold of his fingers and guides them to his chest.  
"Touch yourself," he instructs, and a white, burning wave of heat rushes through Castiel's body at that. With Dean's hand lying atop of his own he touches his own nipples, ghosting over them with his fingers. Is sends tingles down his spine and they go stiff.  
"You can be a little bit rougher," Dean breathes and his palm leaves the back of Castiels hand for a moment, his fingers pinching one of them. It's so sudden and unexpected that Castiel's body jumps and he doesn't even register the soft noise that escapes him until it's out there, loading the air with arousal and sex.  
Dean shifts and moves a bit closer and says: "Now try going a bit lower," and Castiel can feel the words on his neck.  
Dean guides his hand lower and it's sweet and scary and dark, the way it feels when the hunter's finger touch his stomach and at some point it's not Dean as much guiding his hands as him just taking over and Castiel biting his lips harder than ever and sucking in breath and maybe, _maybe_, letting out a whiny moan when Dean closes his hand around his erection.  
"Is this good?" he whispers, his face so close that his lips brush over the shell of Castiel's ear and Castiel can't even produce a simple _yes_ because then Dean touches the head of his cock and it's _intense _and he groans and his heels dig into the mattress.  
"We should probably use some lube," Dean mutters, but he doesn't get up to fetch any, instead his hand just briefly leaves Castiel's groin and when he opens his eyes to see the hunter slide his tongue over his own palm it makes his cock twitch.  
"You like this?" Dean asks, and while the wording is definitely not just a checking to see if Castiel is still okay with it all, it really is the soft bite to his earlobe that clearly marks that they have left that area behind them.  
"Ungh… yeah," Castiel moans and pushes his hips upwards, fucking into Dean's grip. Dean moves closer yet, pressing his body against Castiel's. This is turning the hunter on, that much is obvious. Dean's arousal is digging into Castiel's hip, and the older Winchester is rocking slowly back and forth against his sweaty skin while making Castiel writhe and pant and gasp until the inside of his eyelids go white and he is toppling over the edge, hips lifting from the mattress in uncontrolled movement and come staining his stomach.

**Note: So that was it, the huge chapter. Did you like it? I definitely love writing stuff in Castiel's POV. But you probably guessed that. By the way, did I ever get around to apologizing for all the spelling mistakes and grammatical errors? I don't think so. But there you have it, I'm really sorry. English isn't my first language and I'm without a beta. I hope you enjoy following this fic anyway, though. I think we'll grab something in Dean's POV for the chapter, yeah? See you then! **


	8. Chapter 7 - Dean

**AN: What is that…? Could it be… a new chapter? Why yes it is! Just FYI, I am currently rolling around on the ground and crying in shame for being so slow at updating. Sorry! And you are such amazing readers. I don't deserve you! Your comments are s t. I mean it. Every time I receive a nice comment, I just have no idea what to with myself. I nearly fell out of my chair once from excitement. **

_Chapter 7_

_Dean_

At some point during the fumbling in the dark Dean just decides to switch off his already clouded mind. The curtain made of homebrew and cigarettes closes and he lets his body take over. The air smells of dry dust and sweat, Castiel's skin in slippery and shines white and blue where the light from the window falls on it. He mumbles things in his ear, raw, ragged things that makes Castiel snap for his breath. It's bodies and breath and shaking hands and when Castiel comes he drags his nails down Dean's chest, leaving behind red trails and making Dean's heart beat even faster. He doesn't let Castiel catch his breath; he just climbs on top of him, grabs his hand and guides it toward his groin. Castiel can't even speak yet, but Dean can't pause this, they need to keep going with a 120 miles per hour. Otherwise Dean will get time to think and he doesn't want that. Castiel jerks him quick and unpracticed. His eyelids are halfway closed, but the dizzy gaze keeps returning to Dean's face, so Dean bucks his hips, fucks down into Castiel's hand so hard his cock skids over his stomach, sliding through the come there. Dean closes his eyes and his mind and he breathes loud and desperately, Castiel lifts himself up towards him, presses their chests together and a pair of dry lips touches against his. It's electric and dark and he gets tangled up in it all, in Castiel's hair and his sticky come and his lips. He turns his head away, or at least he tries to. Instead he finds himself biting into skin, closing his teeth around the lower lip and pulling at it, licking it with his tongue and making Castiel breathe out in erratic burst accompanied by small ooh's and ah's. He dips his head down so their foreheads are touching; there's sweat and he slips and their noses bump into each other and Castiel's eyes are so wide, staring at him, and he can't really determine what it is that's shining through them, the world is going blurry at the corners and he thinks that maybe it looks like fear, but before he has time to look closer it all explodes.  
"Fuck," he says through gritted teeth and comes.

For a few moments he lies still on top of Castiel while catching his breath. He's dizzy. The mix of their come is sticking to their bodies, making their skin cling together. He rolls off the other man. Castiel grabs his t-shirt and slides the fabric over Dean's stomach, cleaning off the worst of the mess. The movement is tender. They don't talk. Dean looks at Castiel's hand and the ragged t-shirt in it. He looks at the ceiling and the moon hanging outside the window. He can feel Castiel's eyes on him and he shudders. The sweat on his skin is starting to cool down. His mouth is dry and raw, but he doesn't want to get up to get something to drink. He doesn't want to walk through the room naked, when Castiel's lying there, looking at him. He doesn't want to move. He wants to fall asleep. He wants to be alone. When Castiel starts cleaning himself, Dean rolls over on his side and closes his eyes. He thinks of the road and the horizon, two of his favorite things. He thinks of how to take a gun apart and put it back together again. He thinks of the Impala's motor and when Castiel whispers his name he thinks even harder about it. Lists every single part in his mind and ignores the whisper. In the end he falls asleep.

It's the pain that wakes him up. He has tried having bones broken before, but it doesn't make this any more pleasant. It's the sight of Castiel lying next to him that makes his guts curl into a tight knot. It's the dried come on his stomach that makes him get up. He quickly pulls on his boxers in as much silence as he can manage. Bobby's old floorboards aren't too happy about being stepped on this early in the morning before the house is properly warmed up and they're pretty loud in their protests. Castiel squirms a little at the creaking sounds but remains asleep. While he very carefully slides his shirt from the night before over his shoulders he takes in the sight of the fallen angel on the dirty mattress at his feet. Castiel is stretched out on his stomach, one hand beneath the pillow, clutching it tight against his head. The sheets have slid down his body and are tangled between his legs. As he dreams the muscles in his back are moving under the skin. For the first time Dean notices two parallel scars running down his back. They are angry, read lines, quite new by the looks of it. When he realizes that the scars are located where Castiel's wings would be attached to his body if he still had them, he feels sick. Castiel's feet are poking out under the twisted sheets and the toes are wiggling a bit. He lets out almost-words and even though he mumbles them into the mattress Dean can hear that they are scared words. He wonders if Castiel is having a nightmare. He leaves the room.

Bobby is an intelligent man and Dean has seen him bring cars back to life that he himself would swear could never drive again. The man is a magician with a toolkit and Dean has learned some of best tricks from him. That's why he doesn't understand how the water heater is always, _always_, broken when he and Sam drop by. Maybe it's simply because Bobby isn't interested in fixing anything but cars. Or the water heater might just be too much of a challenge. Or – and Dean actually suspects that this might be true – the old man simply turns it off to annoy them. Whatever the reason, the water is icy and cuts into him like knives, making his nipples harden and the hair on his arms stand up. Still he stays under the spray for a long time. He finds figures in the weird sort of yellow fungus that's crawling its way across the wall tiles and he scrubs himself meticulously, making sure that the skin on his stomach is completely clean. And then he just stands there for a while; he just stand there breathing. The water runs through his hair and it feels like it freezes his brain down. He'd like it if it actually did, if his brain could just be a clump of ice. He'd like it if his blood turned cold, so cold it burned.  
"Dean, are you in there?"  
It's Sam with his blurry, sleepy voice that's knocking on the door.  
"C'mon, you've been in the shower for ages. There are other people here who need the bathroom."  
"Well aren't you are cheery morning bitch!" Dean yells, but turns the water off anyway.

In the library he fishes out some fresh clothes from his duffel. Well, sort of fresh. He and Sam don't have the opportunity to do their laundry that often. And when they do they are mostly so exhausted from slaughtering another monster that they just let that opportunity slide. Dean has just accepted that he has reached a point in his life where he considers any shirt that doesn't have blood spatter on it to be clean. And this one doesn't.  
"Dean, do you require help with that?"  
Castiel has woken up. He has put on the jean that he has borrowed from Dean, but so far his chest is left bare. The jeans are too big so he keeps them up with a belt that's tightly strapped around his hips. They are still hanging pretty low though. What happened between them last night flashes through Dean's head and he wishes very hard that he could just disappear. Castiel doesn't wait for an answer, but takes the shirt from his hands and helps him get into it. Dean jumps a little at his touch. Castiel takes a long time buttoning the shirt, fumbling with each and every one for almost a minute. Dean wishes it would be over.  
"Is everything all right?" Castiel asks in the end and stills his movements. His hand is resting on the side of Dean's neck. Dean's heart is hammering, he is looking at everything but Castiel's face and he doesn't know what to do. So he jerks back and stares at his friend and only after a few moments does he realize that his mouth is slightly open. He tries to shake this weird feeling off him.  
"I'm not a goddamn baby, Cas" he grunts, "I can dress myself."  
Castiel doesn't answer. He just steps back and Dean sees that in the weak morning light the blue in his eyes has faded into a sickly grey color; his eyes look like two stones smeared in dirt and mud. Dean goes to make coffee.

Castiel doesn't say anything during breakfast. Dean doesn't look at him. But he takes the butter when Castiel hands it to him and he doesn't protest when the man pours him another cup of coffee after he finishes the first one. He tries to talk to Sam instead of Castiel, but his brother seems to be just as keen on keeping quiet today as the former angel does. When Dean takes a closer look he notices the dark bags under his brother's eyes and the pale shade his skin has today.  
"You all right Sammy?" he asks. "'seem a little under the weather."  
Sam smiles at him reassuringly, except it's not that reassuring. It's a stiff and forced movement of facial muscles and Dean feels a rush of worry fly through his guts.  
"It's nothing, I just didn't sleep that well," Sam says. It doesn't make the concern in Dean's stomach go away, but he decides to leave the subject for now.  
"All right," he says. "So – what's today's plan?"  
The table remains quiet. He looks around at his companions, but they just stare down at their plates. Not even Bobby has something to say.  
"Why are ya looking at me?" the old hunter snaps at him after several uncomfortable moments have passed. "I ain't go no idea about what to do!"  
"But… we spend all last night researching," Dean says, "and you're telling me that we still don't know _anything_?"  
"Besides the fact that we're in over our heads? Yeah, that's pretty much what I'm telling ya."  
Dean wants to hit something. Or shoot something. And usually that's what he would be doing at this point in a case. But if what Bobby is saying is true, then they're completely in the dark.  
"Look, Dean, we have information," Sam says. "But it's not of much use. The virus is spreading, and fast. There have been outbreaks on all continents. We just don't have the capacity to stop them, not even if we had anyone to ally ourselves with."  
"But…"  
Dean is getting more frustrated by the minute. Surely there must be something they can do. If they can't kill all the infected victims then maybe…  
"And there isn't any cure?" he asks.  
"I found no mention of any kind of cure in my readings yesterday," Castiel says.  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes Dean, I was very thorough."  
"But you could have missed something, right?"  
Castiel lips go tight and thin. Sam reaches over the table and puts his hand on Dean's arm.  
"Dean, if Castiel says the books don't mention a cure it means _they don't mention a cure_." There is an unspoken warning in his words, the gravity of his voice and sternness in his eyes tells him that.  
"Fine," Dean groans. So that opportunity is already closed. "But what do we do then?"  
Sam shrugs.  
"I don't know."  
"We could try to find the source," Castiel says. It's not that it bothers Dean, but it _is_ a little weird that Castiel is carefully avoiding looking at him when he speaks.  
"What do you mean "the source"? Are you talking about the one who spread the virus to begin with?" Sam sounds confused. "But we took Pestilence's ring – and the virus is still raging."  
Dean wrinkles his eyebrows. "But we know that Pestilence doesn't work alone. Lucifer employes him."  
"Exactly." Castiel says. "From what I gather, the virus was somehow born of Azazel's blood. That is, the version of the virus that the world has dealt with on previous occasions."  
_Previous occasions_, Dean thinks, and remembers when Sam and he first encountered Croats. He shivers at the memory. The virus had torn a small town apart in a matter of days. And now it's happening again.  
"You don't think it's the same version?" Sam asks, and then licks his lips in thought. "Well, a new mutation is possible. And perhaps Pestilence is... hm. And you mentioned blood, so… I don't know. I suppose it could be, hmm, a possibility."  
"Stop thinking aloud and make some sense Sammy." Dean groans. "What exactly are you suggesting?"  
"From what we know", his brother says, "it is possible to conclude that an entirely new mutation of the Croatoan virus has been developed."  
Well that sounds hella reassuring, Dean thinks to himself.  
"So what exactly do we know?" Bobby asks. He has kept mostly quiet in their conversation up to this point; just observing and listening.  
"We know that the victims can now infect others without bringing their own blood into the mix. We also know that the incubation period is significantly longer than it used to be and the victims' behavior is also different in a number of ways. And you told me that the look of Pestilence's quarters suggests that he likes to experiment. Combine those facts and we have a neat, but horrifying theory."  
"You really think Pestilence has somehow made a new mutation?" Bobby says.  
"Maybe." Sam says. "We can't say anything for sure. But he might have used his own blood to make a new and improved virus. The expansion of the incubation period means that it's more likely for the victim to be near other people when the symptoms show."  
Castiel nods while looking at his folded hands. He looks to be in deep thought.  
"Then Pestilence might be able to stop the virus from spreading any further. Maybe he can even make all the infected victims go back to their normal state."  
Bobby looks hopeful.  
"Great. Now we have a target. We have a plan. That's good."  
Dean doesn't really share his optimism.  
"Excuse me, but what "plan" is it that we have exactly?" he asks. "Walking up to Pestilence, knocking on his door and asking politely if he's willing to stop the virus?"  
The table goes quiet again. The others are avoiding his gaze. Castiel's cheeks heat up and he nervously tangles and untangles his fingers.  
"What?" Dean asks.  
"We are not going to ask politely," Bobby says. "You are going to have to persuade him, son."  
Dean gapes a bit him while it dawns upon him what Bobby is asking for him. He turns hot and cold and then hot again. His thoughts go red and dark and fight to be let loose, wild animals roar inside his brain and he musters all his strength to close the gates on the memories trying to resurface. Memories of an endless night that lasted forty years and of pain, searing white-hot pain gnawing his bones and into his very soul. Of groans and whines coming from hidden people, movements out of the corner of his eye and a hideous giggle while he screams and screams and screams.  
"No," he says. "That's not gonna happen. I'm not gonna do that."  
"You have to," Bobby says. "There's no discussion. You are the only one with the set of skills that we need. You don't get to have a choice. I'm sorry."  
Dean slams his fist into the table.  
"Dammit Bobby, I'm not doing it!" His body is full of rage, burning hot anger and roaring fire. He wants to get up, wants to pick up the chair and throw it into a wall, wants to grip Bobby by the throat and shake him, but he never gets to do that. He never even gets to get up because in that exact movement the entire kitchen wall facing the yard is blown to pieces by an ear shattering explosion and he is thrown to the ground by the pressure.

**I am so sorry for writing such DEPRESSING things. It's not really my intention, it never is. But my heart just breaks every time I write in Dean's POV and I end up making it all super sad. Please forgive me. Oh, and I was a little lost on what to do with the plot so I just thought: "Hm… what I can I do to shake things up a notch? I think I'll blow something up." Don't worry; I actually have some pretty good ideas about where to go from here. Until next time: Dear readers, I love you.  
Yours always  
neverhomeless**

**s**


	9. Chapter 8 - Sam

**Hey look, it's a new chapter! I really loved writing this – even though it took a while. I wrote it over several sessions, and since then I've been through it few times, adding details and correcting mistakes here and there. I hope you enjoy it. I'm crazy about the mood in this, and I think I've managed to come up with a pretty despicable lady. Please let me know what you think about her, yeah? Now what are you doing reading this stupid author's note? Hurry up and find out what this chapter's about! **

_Chapter 8_

_Sam_

At first Sam's dream is full of fire. The air itself is hot, burning flame and his skin cracks and bubbles. There's a word somewhere in his brain, slipping through his fingers with a whisper. _Explosion_. He's bleeding and the blood boils before the drops hit the floor. What was that word? He can't remember. What's happening? He can't see. Everything is a searing shade of white. He can only glimpse faint movement, dark shapes running towards him. The world tilts. There's a high-pitched noise in his ears and it screams at him, screams and screams. He wants it to stop. He thinks that he might be moving. Maybe he's crawling; dragging himself across the floor. But he's not sure. Everything is just fire and that loud, screaming noise and he has no idea if he's even still in the same place. His hands are burning torches that he can hold high up in the air to light the way. He feels like he's holding the sun in his arms. His nose is bleeding. He tries to focus, focus on the floor and crawling, but his knees collapse under him and he falls down on his side. Something drove into him, he thinks. A car must have run him over. But why isn't he on a road then? Why is everything so bright and hot if he can't see the sun? Something hits him again. Is it a boot? It hurts. Everything hurts. He curls in on himself. He looks at his hands again. He's not holding the sun after all. They are red and blood is smeared over the skin. The floor is slippery. Is he lying in a sea of blood? Yes, he thinks. He's in a boiling sea of blood. He's being cooked by cannibals from Africa. That's why it's so hot. It's the burning Sahara sun that's blazing down. And Sam is the thirsting traveler lost in the desert. It hurts. The air hurts. Muffled voices yell under the high-pitched tone and something sharp is jabbed into his arm.  
Then smooth darkness settles around him and there's a voice.  
"Sam."  
It's a calm voice, a bit dark. It's coming from somewhere inside the blackness surrounding him.  
He doesn't answer. He's lying on his knees, trying to catch his breath, resting his forehead against the cool ground. The fire is gone. The pain is gone. But his heart is still hammering and he's not sure what's going on. Bobby's kitchen. The wall exploded. And there were… people. The memory refuses to manifest properly in his mind; it's blurry and too bright. But he wants to remember. He's sure that it's important.  
"Sam," the voice says again. This time it's closer. When he concentrates, he can hear footsteps coming towards him. Then he doesn't have to concentrate to hear them anymore. A pair of feet stops in front of him and a cool hand rests on his chin. His head is lifted up and tilted back and he's staring up at a man.  
Sam groans.  
"Not you."  
"Sam," Lucifer says for the third time. "Where are you?"  
Sam shakes his head, confused. "I don't know what's happening." He furrows his brow. There was something about… fire. Wasn't there?  
"Am I dreaming?"  
Lucifer smiles and chuckles. He removes his icy hand from Sam's chin and instead offers it to him. Sam is just about to grab onto it when a little voice at the back of his head reminds him that it's _Lucifer's _hand that he's about to touch. The hair on his neck stands up. He gets to his feet on his own. Lucifer ignores the obvious insult and lets the hand fall down his side.  
"Walk with me Sam," he says, and without waiting for an answer he takes a step into the darkness. For a moment Sam doesn't move. Should he follow? It is the Devil who's walking in front of him, after all. Then his legs move, almost on their own accord.  
"Where are we?" he asks.  
"How would I know? It's your dream. I'm just a guest here," Lucifer says, and then adds: "Thank you for your hospitality by the way." He gives a short, humble nod in Sam's direction.  
"My hospitality?" Sam is baffled. "You mean… I could just kick you out of here?"  
Lucifer chuckles again and then smiles at him lovingly. Sam feels really uncomfortable. Lucifer looks at him like the loving and sweet older brother he always wanted. And yet there's a twist, a weird curl to his smile that sends chills down his spine.  
"Now Sam, I don't hope you're thinking along those lines. If you want me out, I'm out. But then I'll force my way back in again immediately and then you don't have any say in when I leave, let alone in when you're going to wake up. Are we clear?"  
So he's trapped like an animal in a cage, Sam thinks. Then he nods.  
"Good," Lucifer says, "Because I really need to speak to you."  
"About where I am? In real life, I mean."  
"Exactly."  
"But I thought we were clear on that too. I'm not going to tell you. I'm not going to say yes. Not now, not ever."  
Lucifer sighs. He looks like someone killed his favorite puppy. Though, Sam then thinks, that might be a bad analogy. If the Devil was a five-year-old kid with a puppy, he would probably kill the pet himself – after poking out its eyes with a stick of course.  
"But I don't want you to get hurt, Sam."  
This is so ridiculous. He's walking through nothing with the Devil at his side. And he's pretty sure that they're just walking without a destination too. There's no change in the darkness around them, no shapes, not anything. And now Lucifer's trying to convince him that he doesn't want to hurt him. Sam laughs.  
"Me neither," he says. "That's why I'm trying to keep away from _you_."  
Lucifer stops walking and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. The fingers grip him tight, but he doesn't look angry.  
"Sam, listen to me. You're in danger. You're all in danger. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Fire," Sam says. Or he tries to say. Lucifer disappears. The darkness tightens until Sam can only see his silhouette. The cold grip on his shoulder loosens. Then he's gone. Only the freezing ghost of a handprints remains. And Sam's mouth has turned into mush. Everything turns into mush. Is that a light? He can't figure out if he's standing or lying down. Perhaps he's falling. He thinks of Lucifer, tries to imagine him as a little boy with a puppy. Forcing sticks into its ear to try and poke its brain. He had a dog once, right? That time he ran away. He can't remember what he called it…

…and then he's gasping for air, choking and coughing as a bucket of water is thrown into his face.  
"Good morning Sam," a voice says. "Did you sleep well?"  
It takes a few moments for Sam to realize that he's awake. He's slumping in a hard wooden chair, his neck bent and limbs feeling like butter. He's staring down at a cracked, grey cement floor stained with large rust brown blotches. And he hurts all over. It feels like his head is propped full with nails and his skin is throbbing and feels way too tight. He coughs up water, spit and bit of blood. Then his stomach turns inside out and the sad breakfast he had in Bobby's kitchen an eternity ago come up again. It stinks and he's too weak to even attempt to not miss his clothes. His ribs creaks and sends jabs of pain through his chest when he breathes. He blinks once, twice, and then it dawns on him that he has absolutely no idea where he is or what is happening. Usually Sam is the more reasonable and thoughtful Winchester, but in a situation like this his fight or flight-instinct hits him for full power and he tries to will his weak joints into moving so he can immobilize the speaker before orientating himself. When he tries to lunge out of the chair, however, he discovers that both his arms and legs are strapped tightly to it. He mutters a curse under his breath and the voice laughs at him. He doubts he would be able to do much harm anyway at the speed his head is spinning right now.  
"Oh Sam, you really are the feisty one, aren't you? Everyone always say it's your brother you should look out for, but I think it's the other way around… isn't it?"  
It's a woman who's talking. She's big. Really, really big. When she laughs all her chins wobble and he small, prickly eyes disappears completely under folds of fat. Her hair is thin and flat and dribbling with sweat and her skin is the color of old cheese. She is wearing a hideous orange suit that's desperately trying to cling together over her chest. It looks like it could burst and send buttons flying in all directions any second. Her chubby knees poke out under the tight skirt and the seam is threatening to rip if she ever should try to sit down. She reminds Sam of Aunt Marge from the Harry Potter-books he read as a child, huddled up under a blanket in the backseat of the Impala. But none of this matters right now. He scans her appearance and half mindedly notes that she is horrendously, disgustingly fat; what really catches his attention, though, is the fact that the grisly pair of eyes barely visible are black as coal and tingling with malice. His heart drops in his chest.  
"How did you get in?" he asks, and his voice is raw and dry and his throat feels like desert sand. "Bobby has his house secured against anything."  
The demon bares her teeth at him in a sickly sweet smile.  
"Sammyboy, I can't just tell you all my secrets," she says. Her voice is high-pitched and sugary-sweet and makes Sam wince. "But," she continues, and leans closer to him so he can smell her breath, "I'm willing to make you a little deal. I tell you some my secrets and you tell me some of yours. How does that sound?"  
She smiles again. There's a shred of meat stuck between her teeth and her breath smells sweetly rotten. Sam's stomach turns. He doesn't want to know what kind of meat it is.  
"Tell me how you got in," he says between gritted teeth.  
"Tell _me_ how you plan to defeat Lucifer," she says through her stiff smile. Now her voice sounds cold as ice and the smile has been frozen off her chin.  
He spits in her face.  
She slaps him in his.  
"It really hurts me when I have to hurt you Sam," she says. "So I just wish that you would cooperate."  
She wipes away an invisible tear at the corner of her eye and sighs.  
"I need to know how you and your brother plan to defeat Lucifer. Please try to understand. It's so very important that we stop him."  
Sam stares at her, confused. She's happy, then she's angry and now she's sad. His feet feel really heavy. So does his head. Actually he's starting to nod off for a bit… no. He has to stay awake. Has to stay alert. What was she saying again?  
"You… want to stop Lucifer?" he asks.  
Her sad expression immediately transforms into another bright smile. The constant changes in her mood are beginning to get on Sam's nerves. No matter what look is on her face, her eyes still appear dark and scary. He has to constantly be on edge. And that's not something he's very much capable of right now.  
"Of course we want to stop Lucifer, Sam. A smart boy like you should be able to figure that out."  
"I just survived what I think was a minor explosion which was immediately followed by a rough beating and an injection of some sort of drug that knocked me out cold. You will forgive me if I'm… not at my brightest."  
Sam tries to sound self-assured. He knows how important it is to keep the illusion of power intact throughout an interrogation session. If the demon gets wind of just one small weakness in his mental amour it will attack like a rabid dog until he cracks. His voice breaks mid-sentence though, and he's pretty sure he can feel a thin sliver of blood running from his nose towards his upper lip. He can't make that much of a formidable sight, he reckons. He just wants her to go away. Just wants to sleep. To slip back into the darkness, back to… no, he doesn't want to go back to Lucifer. He has to stay awake.  
"You're so cute when you're angry," the demon says. "But I need you to calm down. We are, after all, on the same side."  
"Oh. Well then it makes perfectly good sense for you to have strapped me to a chair in an abandoned storage building," Sam spits. His ribs ache.  
"Don't play dumb with me, dearie. I'm a demon. You're a Winchester. I'm not going to take any chances."  
"Would you _please_ just tell me what it is you want?" he groans. He can't stand it when demons like her gets all dramatic and tries to put on a show. Why do they all care so much about the atmosphere? It's not a damn play. Why can't she just get on with whatever evil plan it is she's working on and leave him alone? He's tired and sore and covered in his own vomit. And he has to gather all his strength to just make out the words whenever she speaks. His vision is getting darker and his eyelids are trying to sneak down over his eyes every other second.  
The demon smirks. "I believe the phrase _I'm the one who's asking the questions here _would be appropriate in this context."  
Sam fingers itch for a weapon to grab onto so he can bash her head in. The demon continues: "I do, however, understand why this whole scenario –" she makes a movement with her hand like a realtor presenting a particularly exquisite house – "might be confusing for you." Sam looks around. It's the average shady storage building with metal pipes and flickering fluorescent tubes running along the ceiling. The demons have spiced the place up a bit with a large splotch of blood smeared over one of the walls and a general underlying smell of sulfur in the air. Still it's not really that confusing, he thinks. But then again, the demon might be using some sort of metaphor. He doesn't really care. His ears are ringing and the world is getting very blurry at the edges. He wishes she would just shut up.  
"If you think you can stay awake a little longer, I'm willing to let you in on our MO," the demon says. Sam's head snaps up, and he realizes he was close to losing consciousness again. He thinks of Lucifer awaiting him somewhere inside his dreams and shudders.  
"Ah, that caught your attention, did it?" she laughs. "Now, listen closely. I represent a group of demons who has the same goal as you. Pressing the pause button on this whole Apocalypse-thing, that is. We're not stupid. We know that Lucifer doesn't care for us. You humans might be on top of his to do-list, but we're trailing just behind you."  
"So you're working…" Sam stops himself. He almost said _with Crowley_. But just because these demons' political agenda sound suspiciously close to his, it doesn't mean that they're partners in the crime with the British bastard. "…towards the same goal as us," he finishes. Perhaps it would be a good idea to keep his doubtful ally up his sleeve a while longer. The demon in front of him eyes him warily for a moment, almost like she knows he was close to blurting out something important. Then she appears to push her mistrust away and resettles her smile between her fat cheeks.  
"Yes," she says. "And while we may have gotten off to a somewhat shaky start, my associates and I are very eager to cooperate with you and your brother… oh, and his little fallen angel, of course." She looks like a smug schoolgirl with a particularly juicy peace of gossip at that last bit and Sam feels like he's completely missing something here.  
"That's all very nice. But if you're so keen on making me trust you, why won't you tell me how you got into Bobby's house? The entire lot is secured against demons."  
For a moment the demon appears to be having a tough time deciding between clawing his eyes out and laughing. Luckily she eventually settles on the latter.  
"Fine, fine. If you insist. It's simple really. We used humans."  
Sam gapes at her.  
"Yes, I know, it's shockingly mundane. Unfortunately Lucifer is too proud to use it in his operations. He's feels that it's below his standards. And normally I would feel the same way. But you know what they say – desperate times call for desperate measures."  
"Did you threaten them?" Sam asks.  
"Oh no dearie, not at all. We paid them."  
"Paid?"  
"Yes. They're mercenaries. Actually they're not so bad. They have a real knack with explosives."  
Sam looks at her and licks his lips in thought.  
"You have been very sweet and informative," he says, "and I won't lie, Dean and I could use a couple of allies on our side. Your offer of collaborating with us surely is, uh… tempting. But seeing as you're a crazy bitch, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I won't tell you anything about our plans."  
The smile disappears from the demon's face.  
"Very well," she says, and backs away from the chair. "I'll tell my boys to pay you a little visit. Then we'll have yet another chat afterwards. And then you're going to tell me everything. Alright?"  
Sam gives her his most defiant stare. She chuckles. She turns her back on him and starts walking towards a metal door that leads out of the room. When she's a few steps away, he immediately starts to mutter.  
"Excorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanic po –"  
She makes a sharp noise and stumbles. But she still manages to wave a finger, and he's cut off when invisible hands try to choke him. He coughs and convulsions run through him. The chair creaks, and for a moment he's almost convinced that it's going to break. Air. He needs air. Splinters cut through his skin and draws out blood when he digs his burned hands into the wood of the chair. His eyes hurt. He's not sure if he's blinking, but his vision flickers anyway. His chest burns and burns and it feels like his lungs are filled with needles. Then the hands disappear and he's allowed to painfully catch his breath. He can taste blood. He must have bit his tongue. The demon doesn't even turn around again.  
"Don't be such a naughty boy Sam," she just says before slamming the door behind her. The darkness gathers around Sam once again.

**/DRAMATIC MUSIC AS SCREEN FADES TO BLACK AND THE WORDS "TO BE CONTINUED" MAKES YOU CRY WITH FRUSTRATION/**

**I'm writing cliffhangers now. Cliffhangers are cool.**


End file.
